


Sigh No More

by KivrinEngle



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Human Disaster John Laurens, Kivrin does violence to classic literature, M/M, Past Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Past Relationship(s), Political Campaigns, this one is meant to be humorous you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26942413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivrinEngle/pseuds/KivrinEngle
Summary: George Washington's campaign for governor of Virginia is in full swing, helped along greatly by the energy and dedication of his young and eager campaign staff. John is delighted to hear that Angelica has recruited some promising young political talent to help their operation in the last months of the campaign - until he gets a glimpse of who it is she's found.Now John is dealing with his mortal enemy, his best friend waxing lyrical over his newfound infatuation, a turncoat in their midst, a boss who legitimately seems to be trying to destroy his life, and the Schuyler Sisters' determination to make everything go according to plan. And somehow, he seems to be the only one who remembers that they have an actual campaign to run.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Hercules Mulligan
Comments: 205
Kudos: 142





	1. 1.1

George Washington’s campaign headquarters are not an inspiring sight.

His staff, working under directives to spend their limited funds as wisely as possible, had set up shop in a semi-derelict old house that had once been stately. Now, the best thing that could be said about it was that it was affordable. The place had accommodated his staff as it had grown over the past few months of the campaign. What had seemed, at first, like an impossible shot at the governorship of Virginia by a man entirely too scrupulous and morally upstanding to be a politician had, somehow, turned into a legitimate campaign with a decent shot of victory.

John Laurens is pretty sure he’s allergic to the house, and also suspects it may be haunted. He spends half his time feeling like he’s about to sneeze, and the rest looking for important papers and items that have mysteriously vanished. If he had any time to be concerned with anything but the campaign, it would probably be driving him crazy. He doesn’t.

He’s only been part of Washington’s campaign staff for the past three months, but sometimes it’s hard to remember that there had been any life before this or outside of this house. Washington probably doesn’t know that a few of his younger staff members have sleeping bags squirreled away in some of the abandoned bedrooms on the higher floors. He would certainly object to their working such long hours, if he were aware of it, but John isn’t the only one working under a significant burden of hero worship for George Washington. It feels like an honor to work eighteen-hour days for him, subsisting on whatever food others bring in to share, and collapsing for a few hours in a dusty empty bedroom before starting all over again.

It’s what being young is for, he thinks, typing away furiously at a memo that needs to go out to county campaign representatives within the hour. He and Lafayette, in particular, have the energy to work the crazy hours and not fall apart. The older, more experienced staff roll their eyes gently at them, but nobody tries to stop them. _They’re true believers_ , he sometimes hears the older ones murmur. _Let them work themselves to the bone if they like. That enthusiasm will fade too fast, as it is_.

“Good evening,” the man himself says, entering the room. It had once been a formal dining room, John thinks, with elaborate scrollwork along the line where the wall and ceiling meet. Now it’s a constellation of card-tables and kitchen chairs that are serving as work stations, with the odd bookcase here and there stacked high with books and papers. John barely resists the urge to jump to his feet and salute when Washington comes into the room, but he manages it. Thank god - the few times he hadn’t had been deeply embarrassing. Everyone stops work and greets the boss - and it’s only then that John realizes how late it is, and how few of them are still at work. He’d been so deep in his work that he hadn’t noticed.

“How did the town hall go?” Eliza Schuyler asks, pushing her long, dark hair back behind one ear as she looks Washington over with a careful eye. “Did you get to speak about universal pre-K funding?”

Washington chuckles. He looks tired, but still vibrant and commanding, even as he slumps down in one of the few comfortable chairs they keep around. “No worries, Eliza. It was a great event, and you might almost have planted half the questions in that audience, given how perfectly they fit with our message. I think some of them were actually listening, too.”

Eliza gives a little fist-pump of celebration, and then lets out a startled laugh as she’s suddenly taken by the hand and spun around in a celebratory dance by Lafayette, who’s just come in behind Washington. “A triumph, Eliza! An unquestionable victory!” He twirls her one more time for good measure and then lets go, clapping John on the back as he strides past his workspace. “If only we could convince the media to cover it as such!”

“I could add any talking points you want to this memo before it goes out,” John suggests. “Maybe they would at least make it into some of the smaller, local papers if it went out through all the county campaign offices.”

“I’m sure we all wish we were having better luck with media relations,” Washington says, smiling at them fondly. It’s only his youngest staffers left, unsurprisingly. All the more senior folk have long since gone home for the night. “Although our luck may be changing on that front. I’ve just heard from Angelica, and she’s got a few promising new political talents she uncovered while organizing campaign events on the other side of DC. She thinks we may have a new press secretary.”

Eliza, John, and Lafayette look at one another with excitement they don’t bother to keep hidden. John Jay may once have been an exceptional communications director, but he’d gotten sick barely two months into the campaign, and hasn’t pulled his weight since. Anyone else would have fired him, John thinks, but Washington’s loyalty to his people is as deep and sincere as theirs to him. They’ve all been doing their best to pick up the slack, and everyone pretends that Jay is going to be back on the job eventually, but they all know the truth. A press secretary who actually does things like correspond with the media could really improve the campaign’s situation, if they’re any good. And John knows Angelica. She wouldn’t be bringing someone in if they weren’t good.

“Please, please,” Laf begs the sky, looking heavenward with imploring eyes. If God exists, John can’t imagine even such a deity being unmoved by Lafayette’s fervor.

“What’s more,” Washington says, directing a particularly amused look at his young protege, “she also says she’s got a killer Get-Out-The-Vote coordinator. You might not have to try to register and turn out every voter in the state on your own after all.”

“I will buy her a car,” Lafayette says dreamily, still staring heavenward. Sometimes John can forget that Laf has more money than he knows what to do with, but sometimes it’s impossible. “The nicest car I can find.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it,” Eliza tells him, laughing a little. “You know Angelica. She’s so committed to public transportation, I’m afraid it would never be used!”

“Fine,” Laf allows. “Then chocolate, at least. If she’s found us two new staff members who are actually qualified, she deserves nothing but the best.”

John nods fervently in agreement, scanning the memo one more time for any egregious typos or grammatical errors. He probably shouldn’t be trying to write anything when his eyes are burning like this, but there’s always more to be done, and sleep seems like such a waste of time. They’ve got less than two months left before election day. Washington may be leading in the polls at the moment, but so many variables swing back and forth like murderous pendulums that John isn’t going to take a single easy breath until every last vote is tabulated and certified. Maybe not even then.

“Good work, as usual, all of you,” Washington says warmly, pulling himself to his feet and rubbing his face with both hands. “I’m too old to keep these sorts of hours anymore. I need to get home - and so do all of you!” He glares at them with mock-sternness, pointing at all three of them in turn. “Go home, get some sleep. Don’t make me force you to take vacation!” That actually sounds like a genuine threat at this point in the campaign, just as things are really starting to heat up, and they offer a chorus of assurances that they’ll follow his orders. Washington leaves, and Lafayette and Eliza congregate by the war map they have on the wall, talking quietly about the next few days.

John picks at a few more specific wordings, and then finds himself staring past the words, mind wandering. The memo isn’t going to get any better through his staring at it, he decides at last, and sends it off on a wing and a prayer. He stretches, feeling knots and tension he hadn’t even been aware of, and Laf laughs at him.

“You are like an old cat, my friend,” he says cheerfully. “Come! We should go out tonight! We are still young, and so is the evening. Some drinks, some dancing, and who knows? We may find a new friend or two, some exciting company, ehh?” He wraps an arm around John’s shoulders, grinning at him with such infectious good humor that it’s hard not to grin along. John shakes his head, though.

“You two go on, if you like. I just need to get some sleep tonight.”

“John Laurens,” Eliza says teasingly, giving him a stern look of disapproval. “Do you ever let yourself have fun? I don’t think I’ve seen you leave this house in weeks!”

“There’ll be plenty of time for fun when the campaign is over,” he says stoutly. “And anyway, that’s not really my scene, you know. Now if you were offering a fencing match or the like, it might be a different question.” That much is very true. He doesn’t drink, but he doesn’t advertise that fact, either.

“Ahh, but what about someone new and interesting?” Laf asks, waggling his eyebrows with attempted insinuation that kind of just goes too far and winds up looking ridiculous. John laughs at him, not bothering to answer the question, and Laf deflates a little. “Will you never allow yourself to find someone, my friend?” he asks, a little sadly.

John grins, shaking his head. “And what would I do with one if I had them? I’ve got everything I need already, right here - work that matters, a boss I’d walk through fire for, and you two, to torment me day and night. My schedule is full!” He reaches up behind Laf to pull on his ponytail, just enough to make him let go of John so he can slip away. Laf yelps in fake outrage, and Eliza comes and pats his arm sympathetically.

“Poor man, is John being mean to you?”

“John is going to get a shower and a few hours of sleep before it’s time to get started again,” John says pointedly. “But if you mind your manners, I may cover for you tomorrow when you come in hungover.”

Eliza makes a face at that. “Good point. I don’t want to get on Angelica’s bad side when she’s just getting back!” She gives both of them a sly smile. “Maybe I’ll see if I can get any more information out of her on her new recruits.”

As glad as they’ll all be for more help, especially in the critical areas Washington had mentioned, John isn’t quite sure where they’re going to put two more full time workers. They’re pretty much living in each other’s laps already as it is. He looks around, trying to find more space, and barely remembers to call a goodnight to Eliza and Laf as they take off. Eliza rarely stays at campaign headquarters, unless she falls asleep in the middle of a project and no-one has the heart to wake her. Laf splits his time between headquarters and a variety of more exciting locales; he’s so enthusiastic, so full of life, that even the crushing madness of campaign season can barely contain him.

Despite his best intentions, his plans to try to get a decent night’s sleep wind up being derailed, as he finds himself spending hours trying to create two more functional workspaces in their cramped dining room/war room. He winds up sacrificing half of his own desk space, and sacrificing half of Laf’s on his behalf. It’s a good thing they’re both easy to get along with.

It’s almost two by the time he gets his head down for a bit, and his alarm goes off again just before six. It’s always a struggle, trying to be ready and awake before Washington gets in for the morning, but John is determined to be everything he could look for in a campaign aide and then some.

He feels so fortunate to be here, to be part of this movement. He’ll do a good deal more than get up early to continue to be worthy of a place here, especially since he’s still not sure whether he’s been brought onto the campaign because of his father’s prominent political position or in spite of it. Washington has never broached the topic, but it’s not like he could possibly be unaware of Henry Laurens and John’s relationship to him.

John wonders, as he starts the coffee and checks that the windows are all open, letting in the cool morning air, whether Angelica’s new recruits are in it for the right reasons. It’s hard not to be a bit cynical about people joining the campaign now, when they’re beginning to be really successful. For himself, John thinks he’ll always have more faith in those who have been there from the beginning, working themselves to the point of exhaustion because they believed in Washington and his ideals, even when it didn’t seem like he would have a chance in hell of succeeding. Now, though, they’ve had their share of latecomers trying to hop aboard a campaign that’s going places. It’s the nature of politics, John knows better than most; there will always be people looking to take advantage of any opportunity that presents itself, and joining a victorious campaign may well look like a promising launching point for a career.

He’s neck-deep in emails by the time the first other workers start shuffling in around seven, clutching mugs of coffee and tea or making a beeline for the coffee pot. They’ll all catch up on sleep after November, as they’re always assuring one another. Aaron Burr wanders in, looking like the walking dead, but that’s not a surprise to anyone. He’s a brand new father and consequently sleep-deprived, though the rest of them scheme to send him home early as often as possible, trying to help him spend more time with his new daughter. John exchanges greetings with people as they come in, his attention more than half on his work.

Washington, who works as hard as any of them, if not harder, is on the scene well before eight, looking as fired-up as ever. He starts making his rounds, checking in with one person after another, getting a sense of the day ahead. John moves through emails, replying to those he can deal with quickly, setting aside a few to talk to Washington about later. Cornwallis, Washington’s opponent, is circulating rumors in the media that he’ll be launching a new line of attack later this week, though everyone is being very close-mouthed about what the substance of it might be. John can’t help but roll his eyes a little; Washington is Teflon. Nothing Cornwallis has tried has stuck to him yet - partially because Washington is a very good politician, but mostly because he is a very very good man, and there’s nothing for the press to catch hold of in their efforts to tear him apart.

“My very favorite Laurens,” Washington says jovially, as he reaches John’s desk and claps a hand on his shoulder. “How are the airwaves this morning, young man?”

John grins at the joke, which has not yet worn thin. Given how prominent the political gulf is between his father and Washington, and how little personal warmth exists between them, it’s not exactly a great competition for the title of Washington’s “favorite Laurens,” but it still makes him smile every time. “Quiet so far, sir. Positive feedback from last night, though we didn’t have much more luck than usual on the political reporting front.”

“Angelica assures me that is about to change,” Washington says, and nods at the new empty seat and half-empty desk at John’s side. “If you don’t mind, I think we’ll install the new campaign press secretary here so you can bring him up to speed. You’ve done more than your fair share of that work in the past weeks. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” John does his best not to blush or stammer, but he can feel his ears going red at the compliment.

“Not at all,” he says. “I’m happy to share, I mean. I’ll do my best to catch our new addition up on what I’ve been working on.”

Lafayette chooses that moment to burst through the door - late, but of course still full of energy and optimistic bounce. He didn’t even look like he’d missed any sleep, John thinks a little crankily. It’s simply not fair. Laf probably isn’t fully human. Washington tries to adopt a stern expression as Laf rushes in, but it’s a lost cause from the beginning. Everyone in the office knows how fond Washington is of Lafayette, who is almost family to him, and nobody minds, because Lafayette is impossible not to love. Further evidence for John’s ‘not quite human’ theory.

“Angelica just got here,” he announces, and Washington gives a sigh of relief.

“Gentlemen, I’m beginning to feel the slightest bit of hope,” he says, actually grinning at them. “Between Angelica Schuyler and whoever it is she’s managed to bring onboard, I think we’re headed for more solid ground.” He claps Lafayette on the shoulder in passing, heading for the door to meet the new arrivals, and Laf collapses in the chair next to John, looking frantic.

“How is my hair?” he whispers furiously, fluffing it nervously, then adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Why did I wear this today, of all days?”

“What’s wrong?” John asks, batting Laf’s hands away from his hair before he manages to ruin any trace of style. “Your hair’s fine. Your hair’s always fine, you know that.”

“Fine is not good enough,” Laf says with a groan of despair. “John, Angelica is here with our two new recruits, and one of them is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. If he comes in here and sees me like this, I may die of shame.”

“You’re an idiot,” John says fondly, and drags Laf away around the corner into the hallway, where he spends a minute fussing at Laf’s clothes (needlessly, of course) and giving him a critical look-over. “You’re more than fine, Laf. You’re the pinnacle of style and effortless grace.”

Laf groans and slumps face-first against the wall. “Why did I not stay in last night? I could have been so much more prepared.”

John does not laugh, or even smile, because he is a Good Friend. Also, he’s seen Laf through this routine a time or six before, though usually not to this extent. Laf has a bad habit of falling in love at first sight every few months, and then sighing around about his adoration until things collapse, one way or another. It’s different, though, having it take place at work, since work is also essentially where they live now, adn John hopes uselessly that Lafayette won’t cause too much drama.

“Look,” John says, hauling Laf off the wall and giving him a bracing sort of shake. “Go stick your head in the freezer for a few minutes, calm yourself down, and then make a dramatic entrance once your true love is in the office and prepared to be swept off his feet.”

“No,” Laf says, shaking his head and adopting a stance of heroic suffering. “We must go back now. There is work to be done.”

“You’re just trying to use me to make you look good,” John accuses. “In comparison, you’re going to look like a model!”

“Of course not,” Laf says. It’s not convincing. “Come along, John. I’m sure the governor will be missing us.” John rolls his eyes.

“Don’t call him the governor yet,” he insists as Laf drags him along, back toward the war room. “I keep telling you, that’s bad luck!”

“No bad luck today!” Laf insists, rounding the corner with great style, and then whispering in John’s direction. “You see what I mean? I am lost, John!”

Angelica Schuyler and Washington are in the middle of the war room, obviously showing their new arrivals around. John has worked with Angelica on and off a few times in the past few months, but mostly they’ve interacted via text and email, as she’s been on the ground all over the state while he’s worked at headquarters. She’s brought two young men with her, and John doesn’t have to be particularly brilliant to work out who Laf’s new infatuation has made its target. The tall, strongly-built man with the incredibly unseasonal grey beanie is exactly Laf’s type, and the aura of calm confidence that flows from the man, even at a distance, is the final touch. He pats Laf’s arm consolingly. There’s no way they’re getting out of this without a full tour of the emotions.

The other man has his back turned, talking to Washington, so all John can see is an impression of lean, energetic motion as he gestures and nods his head, a short ponytail bobbing as he talks.

John has a sudden, nearly overwhelming sensation of familiarity, and he shakes his head a little. “Can’t be,” he mutters, and Laf looks over at him, surprised out of his own reverie.

“What?”

“Ah!” Washington has spotted them, and motions them both over. “I’d like to introduce two of our finest young workers here. This is Lafayette. He’s been handling our rapid-response actions and coordinating with field operations.” He gestures towards the beanie-wearing man, and John can hear Laf give a quiet little sigh, and hopes he’ll manage to be professional. They’ve got work to do, after all. “Lafayette, let me introduce you to Hercules Mulligan. Angelica informs me he is the most promising Get-Out-The-Vote operative she’s worked with in any campaign. I think the two of you will have a great deal to talk about.”

Lafayette looks like he’s caught between the impulse to offer a hand or make a formal bow; sometimes he trips himself up when he gets flustered. Mulligan has no such problem, it seems, and offers a dazzling smile and an extended hand, while Washington gives the other new guy a tap on the shoulder, encouraging him to turn around.

“And this is John Laurens, who’s been handling our communications pretty much single-handedly for the past few weeks. John, this is Alexander Hamilton, Angelica’s newest protege in the field of managing pretty much everyone and getting results, from what she tells me. He’s going to be our new press secretary, which will hopefully take some of the load off your back.”

John stares at Hamilton as he finally turns around, and - yes, he should have listened to his instincts. He’d been right about the familiarity. He forces a smile and nods tightly.

“Alex,” he says, and folds his arms across his chest. “Still in the States, then? I’d figured you’d be somewhere in South America organizing a coup by now.” Washington blinks at him in surprise.

“Jack,” Alex counters. He shoves his hands in his pockets, both shoulders going up a little defensively. “What, found a campaign that’ll put up with your scolding and moralizing? I’m surprised. I hadn’t thought your father would let you work on this side of the aisle.”

“You know, I don’t really feel a need to consult him about all of my actions,” John says, raising an eyebrow. “But what came of your last campaign subject? Weren’t you taking up with Seabury to spite Paine? Or was it the other way around? I’m afraid I can never keep track of your political aspirations on any particular day.” He gives a little smile at that, and Lafayette turns to look at him in astonishment.

“I see you’re still struggling with the concept of being wanted by more than one person,” Alex says, flashing him a smirk that’s almost predatory. “I go where my talents are needed, of course, and I hear that this illustrious campaign is in desperate need of talent on the communications front. I am, of course, happy to lend my expertise.” He glances around at the chaos and crowded surroundings, and grins a little wider. “Want to show me your office, Jack?”

“Delighted as I would be at that opportunity,” John says, “if it wouldn’t be beneath you, would you answer one question first? Do tell me, how long might we expect you to stick around? I’d hate to waste too much time filling you in on anything you’re just going to take over to the opposition as soon as the wind changes.”

“Gentlemen!” Washington steps forward, lines of worry and consternation creasing his honest face. “Do we have a problem here?”

“No, sir,” John says quickly. “Nothing but a lot of hot air.” He gives Alex the sweetest, most poisonous smile he can muster, and knows that old jab will register.

Alex puts up his hands as if in surrender, laughing suddenly. “Good to see you again, Jack,” he says, and turns back to Washington, dismissal clear in his manner. “I’d love to start talking about your messaging approach so far,” he says, walking purposefully toward the war-map on the wall, and Washington follows, as caught up in Alex’s confidence and certainty as everyone always is on first meeting him. John shakes his head, not uncrossing his arms, and ignoring how Angelica, Mulligan, and Lafayette are all staring at him.

“Always ends that way when he’s losing,” John mutters, glaring at the back of Alex’s head. He’d throw something, if they weren’t in his place of employment in front of Washington, the man he most cares to impress in all the world. He turns on a heel and stalks over to his desk, good mood suddenly shattered, and starts pulling up emails again with too much vigor. Alexander Hamilton is not going to mess this up for him. Not this time.


	2. 1.2

Washington’s headquarters are a shambles, Alex has discovered within the first hour, and large parts of the campaign are little better.

It’s not anyone’s fault, of course. He’s seen it before, in other campaigns that have grown too fast for their own good, that had started small and hadn’t had a chance to build up their infrastructure as they grew. It’s not the end of the world, either. He’s pretty confident that Angelica Schuyler could have it sorted out in under a week. She’s got the most brilliant political mind he’s ever met; unfortunately, she has some resistance within the campaign, it seems. Apparently there’s a faction that’s too conservative for its own good, that’s resisting adding staff as quickly as they need to. Again, nothing he hasn’t seen before. The shoddy campaign headquarters speak to the mindset of a little, cash-strapped organization that hadn’t had the means to bring people on until recently, but Angelica has shown him their latest fundraising numbers, and he knows it’s not necessary anymore. They could afford to hire all the staff they need and even set them up in decent headquarters. 

But one thing at a time, he reminds himself. He glares at his laptop, perched precariously on the edge of the wobbly little table he’s apparently meant to share with Jack Laurens. Of all the fucking rotten luck. 

Jack is - unchanged, basically, which is also unfair. He doesn’t look like any time has passed. His hair is the same, his angry fake smile is the same, and Alex thinks he’s even wearing the same wardrobe, unchanged despite the years. Alex doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know the same can’t be said of him. His hairline has receded a bit, the bags under his eyes are deeper - but at least he’s got new clothes, a new computer - all the benefits of financial success achieved through hard work and sacrifice. He’s earned every bit of it. 

And he’ll earn his keep on this campaign, too. That’s already obvious. There’s enough work to keep even Alexander Hamilton busy.

Angelica had intimated that they had a press secretary, but that pretense has fallen apart in under half an hour of investigation. Washington is a good man, that much would be clear to a blind goat, but sometimes good people do not make good politicians. Washington is too nice. He’s allowed Jay to stay on the payroll even though Alex can’t see that the man has done a lick of work in months, and it looks like the extra work has fallen on Jack Laurens. 

Jack has clearly done his best, Alex admits grudgingly to himself. He’s still as sharp as ever, incisive and compassionate by turns, and he’s done a decent job of keeping up with the work of about four people. Even so, there’s so much ground left unturned, so many places Alex can get to work immediately, that he’s almost salivating at the prospect.

The actual problem is that to get anywhere, he’s going to need to talk to Jack, who is very obviously not interested in any such conversation. Alex contemplates trying to email him. Maybe if they carry on a dialogue over email, they’ll be able to maintain civil relations in the office. Even if it would be ridiculous to exchange emails with someone seated less than three feet away.

“If you frown any harder, you’re liable to melt your screen,” Jack says abruptly, not looking at Alex. “What fatal flaws have you found in my work now?”

Alex doesn’t flinch. “Guilty conscience?” he asks smoothly, opening another set of campaign memos from the last week and beginning to scan their contents. “Why don’t you save us both time and tell me what I need to fix?”

Jack snorts. He’s doing an exceptional job of keeping his expression neutral, though; Alex doubts most of their colleagues would have any idea there’s tension at the little table they’re both hunched over. That’s a change, he notes with a little surprise. Jack never used to have anything like a decent poker face. “And deprive you of the pleasure of noting all my failings publicly? I’m surprised you could think me so heartless.” 

“Have it your way.” Alexander types industriously in a new document - notes on the previous approaches, lists of names to contact. “Had any luck with Weatherford at the Roanoke Times?”

“She won’t take my calls,” Jack says. “Her sister is on Cornwallis’ campaign, so I doubt we’ll ever get much traction there.”

“Watch me,” Alex says. Jack glares daggers at him for a split second, then looks away. 

By lunchtime, Alex has established preliminary contact with Weatherford, and has interviews lined up for Washington on primetime that evening and with the best morning show the next day. The combination of several years of experience in the political scene in Virginia and his own determination never to take anything but yes for an answer has netted him these tokens of success. He’s determined to do more. 

Washington circles around, making the rounds, and Alex checks that he’s gotten the updates to his schedule. Washington nods, looking impressed. 

“Young man, I fear the rest of us may not be able to keep up with you if you continue at this pace,” he says, patting Alex on the shoulder. “John, how are things on your end?”

Jack shrugs, looking somewhat reluctant. “I’ve actually had time to catch up on emails, for once,” he admits. “We’re coordinating messaging in the Northern Virginia counties on a call this afternoon, and I think Angelica is going to sit in and update everyone on the numbers there as well.”

“Good,” Washington says, nodding slowly. “Nice to be able to focus on your own work for once, I’d imagine?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, looking up at Washington with unconcealed admiration. Alex ducks his head, focusing again on his own work. Of course Jack would be prone to hero worship of someone like George Washington - he’s practically tailor-made to appeal to all his instincts. Doesn’t mean Alex wants to watch it, though. He’s too cynical by half for such things.

“Right,” Washington says, gesturing for them both to get up. “Both of you, off to lunch now. I insist,” he says, when Alex goes to protest. “Operational requirements around here, Mr. Hamilton. I insist on my staff being properly fed.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate, shutting his laptop with an audible snap and disappearing around the corner without a backward glance at Alex. 

This is going to be such fun, he thinks, rolling his eyes as he goes to find a bite to eat. 

It’s a campaign headquarters, so of course, there’s food available, if you like lukewarm pizza or slightly suspicious-looking sandwiches. He resolves to bring food from home tomorrow, as many of the others have apparently done. The ramshackle house they’re squatting in has a decent kitchen, although it’s too small to accommodate all the staffers bustling around and trying to feed themselves at once. Alex forces his way through the crowd to refill his travel mug with black coffee, and grabs a piece of fruit from what’s obviously a communal bowl, ducking out of the kitchen as fast as he can. A moment scanning around finds Mulligan, seated on a couch in a sitting room, and Alex makes a beeline for him.

“Some place,” he says, crashing beside Mulligan. “If we survive the attack of the killer dust bunnies, we may have a shot with this campaign.”

“They’ve got a lot of good people on board,” Mulligan says thoughtfully. “Rumor has it this place is haunted, though.”

“Cool,” Alex says, and drinks half his coffee. “How are you getting on so far?”

Mulligan raises an eyebrow at him, and Alex gives him a shit-eating grin. They’ve been through enough together that they’re pretty good at the nonverbal communication. “Don’t start, Alexander.”

“Me? Start anything?” He inhales the rest of his coffee, already itching to get back to work. “How’s your Laffy-whatsit? Given you more to go on than my supposed partner, I hope?”

“Lafayette,” Mulligan says severely. “He’s fantastic, actually, and I’ll thank you to be respectful. When they say rapid-response, they’re not kidding. I’ve never met anyone so enthusiastic and on top of things. I can’t wait to get him out in the field and see how he does. I think all of our field operators would benefit from meeting him.”

“Knew it,” Alex says smugly, polishing the apple against his sleeve.

“You knew what?” If Mulligan’s voice holds a hint of danger, Alex is going to gladly ignore it. 

“I knew the second I saw him that you’d lose your mind over him,” Alex says, grinning again. He is keeping his voice down, in deference to privacy concerns, but considering there are at least eight hundred conversations happening in this madhouse at once, he’s not really that worried about them being overheard. “Can’t wait to suffer through the next two months of pining and moaning. Remind me why I live with you?”

“Because anyone else would have strangled you by now,” Mulligan says, his voice dangerously even. “You’re reaching the end of even my tolerance, Alexander.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alex says, waving that threat away. “Herc, I’m disappointed, honestly. Unsurprised, but disappointed.” He bites into his apple, waving the fruit at Mulligan in emphasis. “I thought you were better than this. Am I seriously the only person who places any value on personal independence? As soon as you allow someone to take root in your heart, you open yourself up to innumerable-”

Mulligan shuts him up with a huge, friendly palm directly to the face, effectively cutting off the torrent of words Alex has lined up. “I’ve heard the Virtues of the Bachelor speech before,” he says. He doesn’t look impressed. 

“Don’t make it sound gendered,” Alex objects. “My advice applies to all, and everyone I meet is too stupid to take it.” He shakes his head sadly at his apple. “You and me, buddy. We’re the only ones with sense.” Then he feels a slight pang of regret at going on to eat the apple, now that he’s declared it his comrade in arms, but this is war, and it’s every political aide for themself. He finishes his apple. 

“I give it two days before you collapse of overwork and underfeeding,” Mulligan says critically, eying Alex from under his beanie. 

“It’s how I work best.”

“Yeah,” Mulligan agrees. “Until you collapse. And then who winds up hauling your ass home and making sure you don’t die?”

“You don’t have to do that here,” a French-accented voice says, and Alex narrows his eyes at Mulligan as his friend sits up straight, throwing his shoulders back and obviously trying to look more put-together. “I mean, it is a bit of a secret, but a few of us basically live here, and there’s always more room to crash when you’re too tired to go home.” Lafayette - yes, Alex knows his name now! - has wandered in close enough to overhear their conversation, and joins in with no evidence of hesitation. Mulligan shoots Alex a wide-eyed, pleading look, and he reluctantly quashes the urge to try to destroy this insidious threat to his friend’s well-being. 

“Here?” Alex asks, wrinkling his nose. Lafayette shrugs. 

“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. John says there’s a ghost, but I do not believe it.”

Alex blinks at that, his mind putting a few things together. Jack is apparently going by John now, which is - weird, but whatever, it’s not his business. And while he’s not bothered by the ghost thing, he does think he’s failed to be introduced properly, and they don’t have time on this campaign for long, slow getting-to-know-you introductions. He puts out a hand. 

“I’m Alexander Hamilton. Press secretary now, or something like it, it hasn’t been made entirely clear.”

“We don’t put a lot of emphasis on formal titles,” Lafayette says, shaking his hand, but he’s eying Alex warily. “Everyone does what they’re good at, and we have been working very well together for a long time now. George is particular about that, you will find. He cares a great deal for the wellbeing of even the most junior members of his staff.” 

“Awesome,” Alex says. “So he’s the one you’re keeping it secret from when you crash here in the haunted dustbunny house?” Lafayette looks like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, and Mulligan elbows Alex sharply. “It’s a legitimate question!” Alex protests. 

“Somewhat,” Lafayette allows. “But mostly his wife, Martha. She would have our heads if she knew.”

Alex makes a mental note of all of that. It’s the most annoying part of joining a new campaign, really - having to get to know all the personalities and conflicts and power struggles, rather than just being able to get the job done. He stands up, stretching. 

“Well, restful as this has been, I think I’ve wasted enough time. See you around.” He starts to head back to the main work area, but Lafayette catches up with him in a second, and stops him with a hand to the shoulder. 

“Alexander,” he says, giving a warning look that doesn’t particularly seem to fit his face or personality, as Alex has discovered it so far. “I do not know what it is that you and John Laurens have against one another, but it does not have a place here. We are working towards a common goal.”

Alex waves his hands. “Hey, I’ve got no problem! He’s good at his work, I’m good at mine. I don’t expect we’ll have any problem getting things accomplished.”

“That is not all that is expected,” Lafayette corrects. “You are new here, and it may take a little while for you to see it, but we are like a family. No-one will take kindly to unkind treatment of one another.”

“Family, huh?” Alex says, smirking. He’s heard that line on too many campaigns before, and there’s a part of him that can’t wait to see how long it is before this ‘family’ is filled with all the same conflicts, romantic entanglements, silent scandals, and abuses of power as every other campaign he’s ever worked on. Nothing ever changes, not really. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Lafayette says, giving him a smile that erases all of the seriousness of the last two minutes. “I’ll bring Eliza by and introduce her in a few minutes. She is brilliant - you must meet her!” He’s gone in a flash, and Alex shakes his head and meanders back to his desk/half of a rickety card table. Jack is already back, which immediately annoys him for reasons he cannot put into words, and he doesn’t hesitate before diving back into his own work full-tilt. 

He looks up in surprise a moment later, only to find it’s been almost an hour, and Lafayette is standing in front of him with another staffer, looking expectant. “Sorry, I got caught up,” he apologizes, and stands up, offering his hand to the newcomer. “Alexander Hamilton.”

“Eliza Schuyler,” she says, taking his hand in a firm grip. He sizes her up quickly, but mostly gets stuck on her surname. 

“Schuyler?”

“Angelica is my older sister,” she says, laughing at his confusion. “It’s something of a family business, working in campaigning. Our father was in politics, and my sisters and I grew up around campaigns, so it was only natural for us.”

“Phillip Schuyler?” Alex guesses. It’s not too much of a guess - Schuyler isn’t exactly a common name - but Eliza nods, looking delighted. 

“Angelica said you’d be helping John with press,” Eliza says, smiling down at Jack with a warmth that seems to radiate off her entire person. “We can use the help! Poor John has been run off his feet recently.”

“No more than anyone else,” Jack objects, but he smiles back at Eliza. It’s a simple thing, but it’s the first genuine smile Alex has seen from Jack since he got here, and it’s surprising how deep it cuts. “Eliza’s absolutely brilliant. She does all the design work and graphics for our signs and websites and everything, and she wound up coordinating half of the last messaging push.”

“Not half,” Eliza objects, laughing a little. “I encouraged you to think a little more carefully about messaging, that’s all.”

“And changed Washington’s mind on several key platform planks,” Jack insists. There’s an obvious friendship and camaraderie between the two of them, and Alex makes a mental note of it for his flowchart of campaign structures.

“Anyway, if I could borrow you for a bit, Alexander, I’d like to discuss aligning our approaches,” Eliza says briskly. Before he knows what’s going on, she’s got him entangled in discussions of everything from high-level strategy to how he’s signing his emails, and none of it feels out of place. He’s got a grin on his face by the time he comes back to his desk, feeling a little like he’s flying. It’s not just Eliza, though she’s fantastic. This is what he lives for - the energy and adrenaline of a campaign, the excitement of working with other passionate, like-minded people for a goal, with the idea that you can genuinely make the world just a little bit better. He’s too smart not to acknowledge that he’s one of the best - but he might not be the very best on this campaign, and there’s a real excitement to that idea.

“I’d love to know how Washington has cornered the market on every person with demonstrable intellect and political talent in the state,” he mutters, still feeling a little giddy. “Is it some kind of spell he does? Or do we just give all the credit to Angelica for sniffing out the best people?”

“Why are you still talking?” Jack asks, not looking at him. “Nobody is listening, Alex.”

“Thought you didn’t hold with lying?” Alex snaps back, his mood suddenly altered. “You’re clearly listening, and while I wouldn’t classify you as the most significant audience I’ve ever had, you’re not nobody.”

“If I wasted half as much time listening to you talk as you did on talking, I’d never get anything done,” Jack counters. He reaches over and pulls a piece of paper out from under Alex’s laptop, making it shudder precariously for a moment. 

“Good thing some of us can multitask, then,” Alex says, knowing he’s being catty and not caring. “Must be challenging, being confined to only managing one task at a time. But wasn’t that always a problem for you?”

“Oh, you know one another?” Angelica has appeared at the edge of their table out of nowhere, like some fey spirit, and Alex does his best not to cower a little. She’s very impressive, he defends himself mentally. 

“No,” they say in unison, and Jack stares at her blankly while Alex shakes his head. 

“Oh,” Angelica says, and waits. Neither of them respond, and she nods slowly. “Okay. So, how are you settling in, Alexander?”

“Can’t really complain,” he says, though he gives their seating area a scornful glance that he knows will speak volumes. “I think I’ll be able to make real progress on some of these media issues today, and by the end of the week, I suspect we’ll be in much better shape.” He laughs a little. “I wish now we hadn’t been hung up locally for so long. Hate to think how many opportunities I’ve missed already.”

“Yes,” Jack mutters to the air. “How did we ever get along without you?” Alex catches enough of a glimpse to see him rolling his eyes, even as he ducks under the table to pick up a file from the neat stack he’s got at his feet. 

“Martyrdom is no way to run a campaign,” Alex tells the top of Jack’s head, whose curls are eying him evilly, he’s certain. “We should all accept help when it’s offered.” He gives Jack a saintly smile when he emerges, file in hand, and enjoys the flash of fury in his eyes. 

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Jack shoots back. “I think you’re right, of course. We all need a reminder, sometimes, that we’re all fallible and liable to require assistance. And corrections.” He smiles back at Alex, but there’s no warmth in it. It’s his political smile, the one Alex has always hated.

“Anyway,” Angelica says, ignoring their polite squabbling with the ease of a professional older sibling, “I wanted to get your read on someone else I’m thinking of bringing aboard. I’m guessing you’ve crossed paths with Thomas Jefferson before, given the breadth of your political work in the past few years?”

Alex tries really really hard not to swear, and mostly succeeds. Jack hides a grin, very badly, behind his file folder. Alex will get him for that later. “I’ve campaigned against him a few times,” Alex admits to Angelica. “He’s brilliant, that’s not in question. Best writer I’ve ever met, aside from myself.” Jack snorts indelicately, and Alex ignores him. “He’s vicious, though. Cutthroat. He gets what he wants, and he doesn’t care how.”

“That’s what I’d heard,” Angelica says soberly. “We’ve got a chance to bring him on as a speechwriter, right now. I know he could do a lot of good, and I’m even more concerned with keeping Cornwallis from snatching him up. Do you think it’s a risk worth taking?”

Alex thinks for a long moment. “Honestly, I never thought I’d darken the door of any campaign Jefferson worked on,” he says thoughtfully. “But you’re right on both counts. We could use him, and Cornwallis could use him even more. Keeping him off their team is worth a lot.”

“He’s a danger up close,” Jack objects, and Angelica turns to include him in the conversation. “I don’t know that you have any idea how toxic he can be, on a personal level as well as a political one.” He’s looking at Angelica with such sincerity and open concern that a mean part of Alex can’t help but step on it.

“Didn’t you and Jefferson work on a campaign together once, Jack?” Alex asks innocently. “A few years back, I think. Henry Laurens’ Senate reelection campaign?”

It’s a low blow, and he regrets it as soon as it’s said. He’s never been able to hold his tongue around Jack. Too late to take it back now, though, and he watches the barb hit home, sees the wince that Jack hides damn well these days. 

“Like I said,” Jack continues, as though there had been no interruption, “Jefferson can cause a great deal of discord within a campaign if he’s allowed.”

“Hmmm,” Angelica says, looking between them with narrowed eyes. “Discord, huh? Can’t imagine what that would be like.” She makes a few notes on her phone, then nods thoughtfully. “OK. I’ll take your feedback to Washington, see what he thinks.”

That means Jefferson will definitely be joining the campaign, Alex thinks, and isn’t sure exactly how worried to feel about that, yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have so little confidence in my ability to write non-angst! I'd be hurt if I didn't know I'd earned it. :D We'll just have to see how this goes! I'm having stupid amounts of fun with this one so far. I feel like I'm screaming what I'm doing here from the rooftops, but I'm also trying to create a workable fusion of at least three different things here, so it's probably clear as mud to anyone who doesn't have to live in my head! Let me know when you spot it, my ducks! 
> 
> Also, can I just say, you guys are incredible. I'm always blown away by how kind, enthusiastic, and encouraging you all are. Your comments give me life. Love always - Kivrin.


	3. 1.3

There are never enough hours in the day to accomplish everything Eliza wants to do. It’s a familiar challenge, and almost comforting, in a way; the rhythms of her childhood - the furious rush of campaign season, followed by slower, calmer times - bleeding over into her adult life with barely a pause for breath.

She’s not complaining, of course. The fact that she gets to work on this campaign, with the amazing people George has gathered to his cause, and particularly getting to work closely with Angelica - it’s all too good to be real. She never minds the lost sleep, or the social opportunities she’s missing outside the campaign. The only regret she really has, at this point, is that there isn’t more time to pour into her work, and into the people who have made the campaign feel more like a family in the past few months.

With all the complications that family can entail, of course. She can’t blame Lafayette for his close relationship with George, of course; if she didn’t have a wonderful father herself, George Washington would be her go-to choice for paternal substitute, but it sometimes makes some of the other relationships within their little family a bit unclear. Lafayette and John, for example, are absolutely like brothers to Eliza now; she’s as close to them as she is to her sisters, and spends a good deal more time with them these days. Sometimes it seems like George is an uncle or something to her - but she’s used to the way the campaign can blur lines, when everyone is spending so much time together in such emotionally charged circumstances.

So she’s not blaming Angelica or anything - of course she isn’t. Angelica does marvellous work, and had absolutely done the right thing in bringing back the new recruits to work at campaign headquarters. All the same, it’s changed things. Eliza is not a fan of sudden change.

The newcomers have been there for three days so far, and she’s only starting to get used to their presence. She hasn’t had any opportunity yet to speak with Hercules Mulligan, other than a brief introduction. Lafayette is absolutely monopolizing his time - and Eliza notes, with a carefully hidden amusement, that their new arrival is not complaining about this in any way. She’s an old hand at politics, and knows the signs of an imminent inter-campaign romance about to take flight. That means Lafayette is a great deal less available to the rest of them, of course, and while it’s not impacting his work, she misses his presence. John is sulking terribly, though he hides it well. He and Laf have been best friends since before the start of the campaign, and now he and Eliza are feeling the loss of their friend, even as they assure each other that it’s temporary, and Laf will come back to them when the first stirrings of infatuation die down a bit.

Alexander Hamilton, on the other hand, is someone she’s had the opportunity to talk to quite a few times already. She is entirely unsure what to make of him.

On the one hand, Eliza is almost as impressed by Alexander as he is by himself. He’s brilliant, there’s no question about it, and the ease with which he gets other people to do what he wants is almost unsettling. He’s funny and clever and charming, and she thoroughly enjoys all the opportunities that their work brings for them to collaborate, which is already happening quite a bit.

On the other hand, she doesn’t understand at all what is going on between Alexander and John.

She’s been working on the campaign with John for three solid months. That’s approximately six years in normal-people time, given the intensity of their lives, and she knows without a doubt that he’s one of the best, kindest, and most selfless people she’s had the pleasure of knowing. He’s generally easy-going and enthusiastic, and it’s genuinely hard to make John express an unkind sentiment (except where their political opponents are concerned, but that’s free expression and should be encouraged, to Eliza’s mind.)

So she’s been utterly bewildered, the last three days, to see these two talented and pleasant young men fly into the worst kinds of verbal warfare every time they’re in the same room. It’s made worse by the fact that they have to share a tiny desk. They’re both still hard at work, diligently applying themselves to the cause with as much dedication as anyone, but the fur flies every time they lock eyes. A week ago, she’d have died of shock if anyone had suggested John would speak to a coworker the way she’s now come to expect from him, when Alexander is around.

They fight about everything - rarely raising their voices, never calling names or openly insulting one another - but she watches them scoring points off one another as though their lives are at stake. Alexander makes a smooth implication that John wasn’t able to handle the job before he got there - (“Really, Jack, will you ever learn to accept help? There was no need for you to try to manage all this yourself. I’m sure no-one expected you to succeed at all of it on your own.”) and John smiles and hints angrily that Alexander is unneeded - (“Thanks for the advice, Alex. I can’t imagine how we got along without you for so long. It’s frankly shocking that our campaign was still standing without your leadership!”)

Eliza isn’t sure how much more she can take before she’ll have to resort to locking them in a closet together and letting them kill one another. She’s got just the closet in mind, too.

She corners John in the kitchen as he’s getting himself another mug of coffee, the dark shadows under his eyes speaking to another late night. They all look like that these days, but nobody really minds. They’re the only ones about just yet. Eliza had actually fallen asleep on a couch in a quiet corner and wound up sleeping there all night, and she’s pretty sure John never leaves at all. She hasn’t ever gotten out of him exactly why that is, and Laf has warned her, sotto voce, not to ask.

“How are things going, John?” Eliza asks, watching him with as much subtlety as she can manage. It’s nowhere in her official job description, but she’s taken it on herself to try to keep an eye on the emotional temperature of her colleagues, and has been known to drop a hint in George’s ear when she finds someone in need of a break or a bit more help. John smiles back at her, looking absolutely normal.

“Really well! I’m finally getting all of the counties talking to one another on a couple of important points.” He sips his coffee, wincing at the utter awfulness of their office blend, and eyes her thoughtfully. “How about with you? Do you need any help on anything today?”

Eliza shakes her head. “Not really. I stayed late last night and managed to finish the latest designs for some of the new signage, and now I’ve got something a bit more fun on my plate to start off with!” John cocks an eyebrow, curious, and Eliza can’t help but grin. “George has asked me to arrange a bit of a social evening for the new folks, and generally for those of us in the under-thirties crowd. I think he’s getting concerned that we’re all turning into antisocial hermits around here.”

“He might not be wrong,” John observes. Eliza laughs.

“No - and even if we are, I’m not sure that going to dinner with the same people we spend all our time with will really help - but then again, are any of us going to say no to a free dinner?” That’s a silly question, of course, and John nods in agreement. “Anyway, I thought I’d ask around and see if anyone has any preferences. I know what most of us like, but not the newcomers. Angelica is going to check with the new guy she’s bringing in - Jefferson, right?”

John’s eye twitches, just a little, but Eliza knows better than to ascribe much significance to it. They’re all developing a litany of twitches and odd habits, and the caffeine they’re living on doesn’t help. “Jefferson, right. I’ve worked with him before. As long as he can get macaroni and cheese wherever we go, he’ll be happy.”

“Right,” Eliza says, making a note on her clipboard - an essential, indispensable item, even if it’s covered in sparkly multi-colored dolphins. She has to have fun somewhere, after all. “There’s that seafood place just outside of Fairfax - I know they do a crab mac and cheese that’s apparently fantastic!”

“No!” Eliza blinks in surprise; John rarely speaks so sharply. He winces, immediately apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Seafood isn’t going to work, though. Alex is highly allergic to shellfish, so unless you want to ride with him in an ambulance to the hospital, I suggest we steer clear.”

She looks at him in surprise. There’s enough knowledge in his voice that she’s absolutely sure he’s not speaking hypothetically. “That bad, huh?” she asks innocently, and John nods.

“Yeah. Watching someone’s throat try to close up because they accidentally ingested cross-contaminated food-” he gives a little shudder, making an awful face. “I’d prefer not to repeat that experience.”

“Seafood is off the table, then,” Eliza says, and grins at her own little pun. “Anything else _Alex_ is allergic to?” She puts just the slightest emphasis on the nickname, and is rewarded by John going a sudden and surprising shade of pink.

“You’d better ask him,” John mutters, and takes a sip of coffee that’s way more about hiding behind the mug, she can tell. Eliza drops her clipboard and both hands to waist-level, tipping her head to one side just enough to make it clear that she is waiting very patiently for answers. It doesn’t usually take very long to get John to crack. “Don’t give me the patient expression, Eliza,” he pleads.

“Then don’t force me to be patient!” Eliza suggests, and puts a hand on John’s elbow, patting him encouragingly a few times. “Come on, you know you’re dying to tell me!”

“We should probably get to work,” John suggests. She just raises an eyebrow at him, and looks around meaningfully at the still-silent campaign headquarters. John sighs, and gives up. “OK, what? Our paths have crossed here and there, I saw him almost die of shrimp, what else is there to tell?”

“John Laurens!” Eliza says, frowning disapproval at him. “I hope you don’t expect me to believe that’s all there is to know. You and Alexander obviously have some history!”

“You’re making unfounded assumptions,” John says, but his heart isn’t in it, and they both know it.

“I’m trying to work out if you’re liable to poison him at your desk,” Eliza says thoughtfully, “but you going out of your way to make sure he doesn’t die of seafood kind of negates that idea.”

“I’m not poisoning him,” John mutters to his coffee cup. “I’ll just be relieved when this campaign is over and we can go our separate ways again, that’s all.”

“Which you’ve done before,” Eliza presses.

John shrugs. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters, John,” she says gently, “You can’t think we don’t see how it’s affecting you. That always matters.”

John looks stubborn. “Look, I’m getting my work done, right? I’m still doing everything I’m meant to, and I haven’t heard any complaints about it.”

“It’s not about that,” Eliza protests, but John shakes his head.

“Look,” he says, and heaves a heavy sigh. “Alex is - well. He’s a reminder that I made a very big mistake, and it’s not actually great fun to be confronted by that all the time. Plus, he’s a total ass.”

“You’re being evasive.” She folds her arms and raises her eyebrows challengingly.

“We’re literally in politics!” John objects, waving his coffee mug energetically enough that she’s glad he’s already emptied it. “Evasive is part of our skill set.”

“Fine,” Eliza says. She’s heard the first cars pulling in outside, and she’s not indiscrete enough to make John continue this conversation in the presence of other people. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

She lets him escape and goes about her work, but the conversation stays with her. It’s one of her less flattering traits, actually - the curiosity that often leads her to poke her nose a bit too deeply into other people’s business. Now there’s an air of mystery around John and Alexander, and it’s very tempting to try to dig deeper into it. Still, she’s a professional, and she has work to do.

If she does something like accidentally arrange for them to sit together at dinner that evening so she can observe them, that’s purely down to logistics.

~~~~~

Eliza arranges for dinner that night - it’ll be the Washingtons and Angelica and herself, as well as John, Alexander, Lafayette, Hercules, and their new addition, Jefferson. He’s due to start today. She knows this because Alexander is complaining about it before he even walks through the door, half-dragged along by Hercules, who is apparently his long-suffering roommate.

“... can not believe we’ve got to deal with Jefferson again,” Alexander is saying melodramatically. Hercules is ignoring him with the ease of the professional roommate. “I mean, of course it’s better for us to have him than Cornwallis getting his claws into him, but the fact that we have to face him every day now? If I didn’t believe Washington was the only man for the job, and that the fate of this state wasn’t hanging in the balance, I’d be gone already.”

“Not like that’s anything new for you, though,” John says evenly, not bothering to look up as Alexander takes his seat. They sit shoulder to shoulder, and sometimes Eliza thinks they look oddly well suited together, at ease in one another’s physical presence even as they exchange barbs. “Morning, Herc.”

“Morning, John,” Hercules rumbles, and John gives him a solid high-five as he passes. He doesn’t look displeased to leave Alexander behind, Eliza notes. Alexander slumps in his chair with bad grace, but she almost thinks he lights up at the taunt from John, as if part of him comes to life with the opportunity to spar with him.

“Jack Laurens!” Alexander says cheerfully, though they all know to expect a trap or barb in his words by now. “What, still living? I half expected you’d have died of boredom overnight without my wit and wisdom to enliven your life!”

“How the hell could I die?” John says, still not looking up. “I’d miss all the ways you’re about to entertain us with your insanity. After all, what’s a campaign without your theatrics?”

“Speaking of theatrics,” Eliza breaks in smoothly, pulling up a chair to the other side of their tiny desk. “I’ve been talking to Angelica, and she’s come up with what I think could be an amazing fundraiser and awareness event!”

“I didn’t think that was our purview,” Alexander says, and Eliza shakes her head.

“Trust me, we’re going to need all hands on board if we’re going to pull this one off!” She steals John’s laptop, which he lets go without a fight, and pulls up the website of the charity George has been supporting from the beginning. It’s a wonderful organization, but Martha Washington had contacted them a few days ago and learned that they’d suffered a catastrophic fire at their headquarters, and they’re now struggling to keep their organization together. “We’re planning to do a charity ball! Invite all of our donors, anyone who might be willing to contribute, and have most of the profits go to this charity. It would be a wonderful community outreach, and give George a chance to get some positive press for something other than speeches.”

“When you say ball,” Alexander says, looking concerned.

“I mean it!” Eliza insists, smiling at his consternation. “And not just a ball, Mr. Hamilton. We’re talking about a masquerade ball.”

“Do people still do those?” John says, looking equally concerned and perhaps a bit repulsed.

“They do if they want Angelica to continue to allow them to be a part of this campaign,” Lafayette says, slipping in behind them and leaning against John’s shoulder to peer at the laptop. “She’s already been talking to me about the idea as well, and I must say, I love it! I want to get as many of our county level-operatives as possible to come. A bit of fun and sociability is exactly what is called for at this point in the campaign, I think. We have a great deal to celebrate, and even more work to be done. Why not boost our spirits and elevate our social profile at the same time?”

“This is the worst idea I have ever heard,” Alexander says in a defeated monotone, slumping a bit farther down in his chair.

“No, it isn’t,” Eliza says, laughing at him. “Because you haven’t heard the rest of the proposal yet.”

“Oh, no,” John says, a look of dawning horror creeping over his face. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Get on board, John,” Eliza orders, grinning wickedly at him. “You’ve got to convince everyone this is a good idea, Mr. Communications.”

“What am I missing?” Alexander says apprehensively.

“ _Masquerade_ ball,” John groans. “Is it too late to quit the campaign?”

“Entirely,” Eliza says. She pats his shoulder consolingly. “Besides, think how disappointed George would be if you left.” She watches him struggle with that internal conflict. She’d feel guilty about using his adoration for George, who she knows John has on a pedestal the size of the state house, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s in his own best interest. He’ll come around, she knows, and for now, it’s fun to tease, just a little.

The amusement is interrupted by Angelica’s sudden appearance, with another new face in tow. Eliza puts on her most welcoming expression, gamely ignoring the way Alexander’s face is a sudden study in scorn and John’s shoulders have slumped even farther. They’re going to make this work. She comes forward and puts out her hand.

“You must be Thomas Jefferson? Angelica has told us a lot about you. Welcome aboard!”

Thomas shakes her hand, smiling winningly. “Of course she has! I’m used to my reputation preceding me at this point, sweetheart!” He pushes back his hair with a careless hand, taking in their campaign headquarters with a gaze that very quickly crosses the line from inquisitive to scornful. “This is where we’re working?”

“It’s got character,” Angelica says, and apparently even Thomas’ scorn is no match for her certainty. He doesn’t look any more approving, but he doesn’t say anything else. “Thomas, this is my sister Eliza, who does our graphic design and about a thousand other things.” She gestures around the room, which is at its normal level of hustle and bustle. “I’ll let you make most of your own introductions, though. I know you have no problem with that.” The sideways look she gives him, mouth pursed, raising one eyebrow, is as easy to read as any book. She’s going to have to get this whole story from her sister at some point.

“Oh, I will,” Thomas says, with enough of a sly drawl in his voice that Eliza is already starting to see trouble in the future. “Where is my office?”

“Pull up a chair anywhere you can find room,” Angelica tells him, and Eliza sees his poise crumble a little farther. “I’ll see when Washington can meet with you. Back in a minute.” She’s gone in a heartbeat, already doing three new tasks at once, and Thomas shakes his head in something like admiration.

“Tell me, Ms Eliza,” Thomas says, glancing around again and letting his eyes linger on the communications desk (such as it is) without any clear sign of recognition, “Does Washington’s campaign usually serve as a homeless shelter?”

“Excuse me?” Eliza says, startled, and Thomas smiles again, managing to show all of his teeth.

“Well, between our poverty-stricken friend Hamilton, no matter how he may dress now, and the least-favored Laurens, I can suddenly see the fitting nature of this campaign headquarters. It’s good of Washington to support the less fortunate this way - but surely he could have recruited more talented people, given his improved profile? Perhaps I can make some staffing suggestions.”

“I’ve got a suggestion for you, Jefferson,” Alexander snaps, and Eliza glances at him. The humor has gone out of the room now, and she’s starting to feel tense. “I suggest you go-”

He stops suddenly and transfers his glare to John, who’s looking innocently at his laptop. Eliza almost suspects that John had kicked him, though that seems out of character. “Thomas,” he says, nodding at him with businesslike calm. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to working with you on this campaign.”

“Sure you are,” Jefferson drawls. “After all, it went so well for you last time.”

“New campaign, new opportunities,” John says, sounding completely detached. “Eliza, maybe you should introduce Thomas to Martha sooner rather than later.” He glances up for a minute stretch of time, barely glancing at Thomas. “Martha Washington is our legal council for the campaign. I’d suggest checking with her before taking any risks.”

Eliza can feel the simmering resentment in the air between the three young men, and though she doesn’t have enough context yet to fully know what to make of it, she knows she needs to break it up. She gestures towards the living room, which is becoming a secondary hub of activity these days. “Thomas, I’d like to make some of the introductions, if you’ll come this way.”

“Of course,” he says smoothly, and follows her without another backward glance.

It’s a very strange energy, and Eliza had already been somewhat disoriented with the friction that had sprung up between John and Alexander. In comparison, that seems wholesome and jovial. Jefferson’s antipathy towards both of the other men is a bad sign, to her mind. She hopes Angelica hasn’t made a mistake here.

~~~~~

Dinner that night is - well.

Eliza likes to think of herself as an optimist. Deep down, though, she knows she’s a realist - and it doesn’t really matter, because the experience looks the same from both points of view. It’s a very pleasant evening, as long as one can ignore tensions that would generally be more suited to the opening sallies of a war. Fortunately, Eliza has the diplomatic skills of a general.

She makes Angelica sit next to Thomas, more because she knows her sister can handle him than out of any sense of retribution. Whimsy and/or curiosity have led her to seat John and Alexander side by side, and the romantic side she rarely shows is responsible for seating Lafayette and Hercules by one another. She plants herself, Martha, and George strategically between all of these pairings, and waits to see how things fall out.

Everyone is on their best behavior, of course. There’s something about dining with the Washingtons that tends to bring out the best in everyone. No-one bickers or references mysterious shared pasts, and table manners are displayed to a degree that would be very surprising to anyone who had routinely watched them eat at their desks back at campaign HQ. Martha is not only a brilliant lawyer, she’s an exceptional hostess, and manages to keep conversation flowing even when it seems in danger of derailing. She gets everyone sharing details of past campaigns they’ve worked on, laughing over remembered antics, and exchanging information about things they’ve gleaned on this campaign.

There’s a very odd moment where they realize that they’ve all actually been in the same place once before - one shared event they all have in common. They had all been in attendance at a presidential inauguration eight years before. It’s not any sort of stunning revelation; most politically inclined people who lived in the DC area had probably been there, but still, it’s a moment of camaraderie that goes some way towards making everyone feel a bit more comfortable.

Some people, of course, have no problems on that front at all. Eliza can hardly keep herself from grinning as she watches Lafayette and Hercules talk together. As the dinner goes on, she can see the rest of the world fading around them, until the rest of the diners might as well not be there.

She turns and nudges John, who’s on her other side, and discreetly draws his attention to their friends. If they were in an animated film, Eliza thinks, there would be little pink hearts floating through the air around their heads. John looks bone-weary at the sight.

“Do they have to?” John murmurs. Alexander follows his gaze, and gives a much less discrete snort, but the young couple don’t seem to notice. Thankfully, neither does the other half of the table, all of whom are listening to Thomas deliver a long-winded lecture on the merits of his previous speeches.

“Disgusting,” Alexander says, stabbing his food with too much force. “I’ve lost him. I knew this would happen!”

“I wish I could say that Lafayette was a better decision-maker than this, but it would be lying,” John says. It’s possibly the first time Eliza has heard the two of them agree on anything, and she looks at them with surprise and delight.

“You both think this is a bad idea, then?” Eliza murmurs, directing her words only to them, and receives surprisingly similar looks of dismay from the other two.

“Dating within a campaign is always a bad idea,” John says quietly. “Emotions run too high. Someone’s going to wind up getting hurt.”

“No,” Alexander corrects, pointing his fork at John. “Dating at all is a bad idea. The single life is the only sensible choice.” John very pointedly does not look at him.

Eliza smiles at both of them. “Well, aren’t you two the perfect pair? I’d say you were meant for each other, if it weren’t for the fact that the thing you’re in perfect agreement about is your hatred of romance!”

Both of their eyes snap to hers, their faces changing rapidly. John looks like he’s slammed a mask down over his features, going completely still and neutral. Alexander looks instantly suspicious, and she has the sudden feeling that if he didn’t like her personally, he might have thrown something. She puts up her hands in silent surrender, shaking her head.

“Or not! I didn’t mean to offend!”

It’s probably a very good thing that George seems to have run out of patience for Thomas’ self-aggrandization at that point. He manages to call all of their attention back (a difficult task, in two particular cases), and makes a lovely little speech about how happy he is to be working with them, how talented they are, and how they represent the future. Eliza can watch the speech having the same effect on the others that it does on her - a ballooning feeling of warmth inside, a growth of self-confidence, a hardening resolve to dedicate themselves to the cause for the time they have remaining. George Washington is a very gifted speaker, she thinks, but only because he is a genuinely good man. The sincerity that comes through in every word is what draws people to him. It’s what is going to win him this election.

By the end of dinner, even Alexander and John look semi-convinced of the virtues of Angelica’s proposed masquerade ball. It’s such a strange thing to be planning, but Eliza is charmed by the idea, and it certainly has the virtue of novelty on its side.

She and Angelica ride home together that evening, which is a lovely change of pace. She sees far too little of her sister, especially given the fact that they work on the same campaign.

“So you think Thomas is going to work out?” Eliza asks. Here, just the two of them, she knows she can rely on Angelica for absolute candor. Angelica shrugs and gives a sigh.

“He’s either going to be our secret weapon or he’s going to blow a hole in this campaign so big we won’t be able to recover from it,” Angelica says forthrightly. “I’m gambling on the first, and I’m balancing the second against the risks of having Cornwallis’ campaign snatch him up. I think we can keep him from doing too much harm if we’re careful, and the rewards are worth quite a bit of risk.”

Eliza nods slowly. She doesn’t like to think about people in those terms, as though they’re weapons or tools, but Angelica probably has the right of it. “Your other new recruits seem to be settling in well enough, so hopefully he’ll follow their lead.”

Angelica groans, rubbing her forehead. “Well enough? That’s one way to put it. I swear, if I have to pull Mulligan and Lafayette out of another meeting to remind them to keep their minds on their work, I’m going to quit. I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Oh, come on,” Eliza coaxes. “I think they’re adorable! And it’s certainly better than watching everyone get more and more stressed as the campaign heats up!”

“Our coworkers are not a Hallmark special for our entertainment,” Angelica reprimands - but she can only hold it for a second, and then relents. “All right, I admit it’s a decent distraction - as long as it doesn’t get too distracting! We’ve got so much work to do.”

“All of which is made easier if people are a bit more relaxed,” Eliza reminds her. “You know what dad always says - it’s a marathon, not a sprint. Maybe a bit of internal romance is the boost of hydration and carbs that the campaign needs!”

Angelica sighs again. “We’re going to have to start a secret betting ring on when they’ll get together, aren’t we?”

“I suspect they’ll be a couple before we can get any such thing formally arranged!” Eliza says, laughing.

“You know, they might not be the only ones,” Angelica says thoughtfully.

And that is absolutely unfair, because then she refuses to give another single hint about who she might be talking about, and Eliza is left to sulk all the way home about her sister’s enigmatic suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not just vanish for almost a week. Can't be possible. OK, so here's what happened. I posted last week, then immediately suffered fatal self-doubt/loathing/criticism and gave up writing forever and ever and all time. Which lasted about three days. (My intense and everlasting thanks to those kind souls who listened to me moan about it and encouraged me. Should have slapped me instead, but there you have it. <3) I've spent the last few days trying to get this written as real life has thrown up one obstacle after another. 
> 
> All that said, I think I'm back on track now. I hope you guys will enjoy this? If not, I mean, it's perfectly fine - not every story is everyone's cup of tea, and we'll probably circle back around to something that's more of a crowd-pleaser another time. For now, this is what I'm writing, and I'm having fun with it, so I hope some of you will too! <3 
> 
> Love you all loads, and wishing far more sleep and success to all of you than the last week has brought me! - Kivrin, who is not even going to attempt iambic pentameter.


	4. 2.1

John is contemplating changing his official Campaign Nemesis. 

Not that that is officially a thing, but in his head it is, and it bears the weight of more formality than it should. Obviously Alex has occupied that spot since he walked through the door a week ago, and it’s actually been almost fun to have a Campaign Nemesis, if only he weren’t so - well, Alex about it all. There’s been something invigorating about having someone else to sharpen his wits against. Besides, if it weren’t for having Alex as a Nemesis, he’d have been feeling pretty abandoned, he thinks, making a face behind Laf’s back as he makes yet another speech about the virtues of Hercules Mulligan, studying his hair in the mirror as he waxes poetic. 

But now, John thinks, tuning out the speech entirely, a new candidate has emerged - and to his own surprise, it’s not even Jefferson. Jefferson is obviously Alex’s Campaign Nemesis, maybe even his fulltime enemy, and John’s happy to leave them to tear each other’s hair out. Metaphorically, of course. He himself is about to take up arms against the Schuyler Sisters. He won’t win, of course, and it’s not likely they’ll even notice his efforts, but he can’t stand to do nothing. 

The problem is, he thinks gloomily, digging through his backpack for a mostly-fresh shirt and hoping the ghost hasn’t vanished his shoes again, that they’re too damn good at their jobs. Of course they’ve managed to convince the Washingtons that this masquerade ball for charity thing is a good idea, and there’s no going back now. Eliza has been neck-deep in event planning for the past two days, dragging John with her every inch of the way in his role as head of Communications, and Angelica has powered it through to impossible levels. He’s afraid that everyone in the operation, state-wide, is likely going to be in attendance. 

And it’s unfair to blame them for his intense dislike of the idea, he knows, but he’s been to entirely too many balls and dances and suchlike in his time as the son of Henry Laurens, and it may literally kill him to have to do it again. And since they’re at fault, John really has no choice but to make them his Campaign Nemesis, and accept his inescapable ignominious defeat. 

Except that would leave Alex not his Nemesis, and then John really isn’t sure what he would be. And he’s not ready to think about that yet. 

By the time he’s dressed and ready for the day, having shaken ungodly amounts of dust out of his hair from where something suspicious had clearly happened in the night, Laf is about done with his serenade to Mulligan’s charms, and John drags him along downstairs, as much for a barricade as anything else. As the campaign heats up, things are changing. He’s not always the first to work anymore, despite his early rising and nonexistent commute. 

Of course, Alex is there already, fingers flying across his keyboard as he simultaneously talks on the phone. John shakes his head as he goes to make coffee, and keeps Laf between himself and Alex. It’s a temporary reprieve, and it’s childish of him to even need it, but it takes him a bit of time in the mornings to work up enough nerve to face Alex. 

It hasn’t gotten easier, even over the course of a week. 

Eliza has posted flyers on the refrigerator in the kitchen, informing everyone of the upcoming festivities, and John stifles the urge to bury his head in the freezer and wait for his brain to shut off. Masquerade ball. What a nightmare. It’s two days away, and already seems to be devouring all of everyone’s time and attention that should be focused on their actual purpose - running a campaign. Sometimes John isn’t sure that everyone else remembers that.

“They are brilliant!” Lafayette declares exultantly, flicking the flyer with exhausting enthusiasm. “A masquerade ball! What a dream come true! Drama, excitement, mystery, intrigue! I think we ought to make this a tradition for every campaign, no?”

“No,” John says flatly, and thinks about the freezer again. 

“Ahh, Laurens,” Laf croons joyfully, putting an arm around his shoulders. “No need to be so sour! What is wrong with you?” He nods, suddenly certain. “I know! You do not know how to dance, is it not so? No fears, my friend! I can instruct you!”

“Oh god,” John says, and tries not to be sick. “No, Laf. That’s not it at all.” He laughs, a joyless thing that disturbs even him, and watches Laf’s face fall. “I know how to dance, OK? My father made sure of that. Couldn’t have me embarrassing him at social events, could he?”

“Ohhh,” Laf says slowly. His disappointment is replaced by sad understanding, and John wants to take it all back and let Laf have his fun. “I see. This is not a dancing thing, then. This is a Henry Laurens thing.”

John shrugs, and pulls away, though not without a friendly clap to Laf’s shoulder. “Nah. This is a ‘John is sleep deprived and grouchy’ thing. I’ll get over it.”

Laf brightens up a bit, though he’s still watching John too carefully. “I will hold you to that, my friend. And tonight, we should go shopping for costumes!”

“Fine,” John says, and makes himself smile. At least that won’t be too difficult, given the proximity to Halloween. He’s going to have to make himself handle this like an adult, he realizes, and mentally promotes Alex back to Campaign Nemesis. The Schuyler Sisters were never going to be on his level, anyway; he never stood a chance.

Armed with horrible coffee and a renewed dedication to his work, John makes his way to his half-a-desk, and begins the morning routine of moving all of Alex’s shit back to his own side. 

“Sorry,” Alex says insincerely. He’s off the phone now, still typing away at dangerous speeds, and doesn’t bother to look up. “I always seem to forget that the appearance of things is more important to you than the substance. I’d hate to have an untidy desk get in the way of everything you’re meant to be doing.” 

“Oh, it’s no bother,” John says sweetly. “Not like I’m not familiar with your tendency to overstep your boundaries, Alex. I’m used to cleaning up your messes.” He drops a pile of Alex’s papers onto the floor - but neatly, into a tidy stack. He’s not a monster. 

“Gotta keep your nose clean for Washington, hmm?” Alex says. It’s amazing how much meaning he’s always been able to pack into a phrase. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the old man, would you, Jack?” 

“Don’t.” Alex has gone too far. He always goes too far, and John had thought he’d inured himself against such petty attacks and insinuations, but Alex knows exactly where to hit him. His voice comes out too high and sharp, and Alex looks up, surprised at his tone. “Just - don’t.” Alex actually has the grace to look somewhat ashamed, and they lapse into silence, diving into their work. 

~~~~~

John is so busy that Washington has to personally force him to take a break for lunch, and Eliza corners him then and discusses logistics and communications and plans for the ball until his head is whirling. Eliza’s alive with the excitement of the project, of course, and John wishes he could share her enthusiasm. There’s so much else to be done, though, so many balls he’s struggling to keep in the air at once, and if he drops even one of them, Alex is going to be on that like a cat. He doesn’t miss anything, and John is sure he won’t hesitate to bring John’s shortcomings to Washington’s attention if he has the slightest opportunity to do so. Not that it should matter as much as it does, but John shudders at the thought of Washington being disappointed in him or losing faith. John has worked far too hard for the man’s approval to let anything slip now. 

He winds up spending almost an hour on party planning with Eliza, which is time he doesn’t really feel he can spare, but it’s impossible to refuse her anything. The one upside of that choice is that he’s spared a public speech by Jefferson that has Alex red in the ears by the time John gets back to their desk. 

“I hate him,” Alex mutters at his pile of papers. “Hate. Loathe. Despise.” He shoots John a bitter look. “Where were you, Jack? How the hell did you get out of Jeffersonian Discourse on His Own Virtues?”

“Advising Eliza on the ball,” John says, feeling his face twist up in disgust.

Alex looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Fine, you’re partially off the hook, though. But only partially. We had fifteen minutes on Jefferson’s Theory of Speechcraft, followed by another ten on how much the media loved his writing from George’s thing last night, and approximately two hours on the flaws of the campaign due to carelessly existing without his supervision until this point.”

John nods, almost feeling sympathetic, but he can’t keep himself from pointing out, “You mean, the way you did when you came on board - what, a whole week ago? It really is startling that you and Jefferson don’t get along better, I must say. You think along the same lines.”

“Hey!” Alex snaps, looking genuinely annoyed. “Wrong! He’s arrogant and self-obsessed. I simply have a clear view of my own talents and abilities, and an eye to the future. There’s nothing wrong with being ambitious, you know.”

“Ohh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” John asks, working through his inbox with half his attention. “Ambition? Is betrayal out of vogue, then?”

“Screw you,” Alex says, though there’s no real malice in it. “Betrayal? That’s rich, Jack. You wanted him to lose as badly as I did by then - you just didn’t have the guts to admit it.”

“Easy to have ‘guts’ when literally nothing hangs in the balance for you,” John says coolly. “What was I supposed to do, Alex? Jump campaigns with you? He’s my father, for god’s sake.”

“You didn’t stay out of loyalty,” Alex says sharply. “You stayed because you were afraid. Happy to keep your head down, toe the line, keep your mouth shut - but you were always ready to get on my case for anything you considered dishonest. You’re as much of a hypocrite as ever. Are you ever going to take a risk, Jack? Ever going to risk your precious status quo?”

John stands up and shuts his laptop sharply. “Meeting with Washington,” he says, and walks away without another word.

He’s not lying. He’s not a liar, whatever Alex wants to imply. Washington likes to meet with all of his staff, individually, on a regular basis, and John has never hesitated to seize the opportunity. Washington is a fair-minded man, and though he has never lacked in supportiveness of his young staff, John always feels as though his praise is genuine and well-earned, and he swells with pride when the man compliments his work, and speaks well of Eliza’s reports of his assistance on the ball.

“Can’t say it was my personal favorite idea ever,” Washington admits, leaning back a little in his chair and steepling his fingers, looking over them at John with eyes that give away his amusement. “But Martha talked me into it. I suppose if we’re going to do it, we ought to do it right, after all.”

“Yes, sir,” John agrees, letting himself smile wryly. “Can I ask, sir - did you have to do many of those sorts of things, growing up?”

“Stop calling me sir, John,” Washington says gently. “Yes, I’m afraid I did. My family took traditions very seriously, and as a member of a family of a certain status, our presence at debutante balls and the like was not optional.” He peers at John thoughtfully. “Would I be right in assuming you’ve shared some of those experiences?”

“Yes, sir,” John says gloomily. “My father insisted on it. He was convinced it was the only way to find myself a proper young lady.” He wriggles uncomfortably in his seat, trying to push back the memories of those awkward affairs. 

“Well, I did meet Martha at one of those events,” Washington says thoughtfully. “Of course, it was because she was there to serve papers to one of the attendees, but still.” He grins a little, genuinely amused, and John can’t help but respond. It’s so odd, seeing humor and levity in a man of his power and influences, and John can’t help but respond to it, like a flower to the sun. 

“Anyway, I promise you we’ll do our best to make our ball less of a formal, funereal event,” Washington goes on. “Who knows? With Eliza in charge, it may even be fun. Do give it a chance, John. And the amount of money we’ve already raised through ticket sales is going to do the charity so much good. It’s worth it - or so Angelica assures me.” He sighs a little. “She’s right, of course. We need to be doing a lot more community outreach and involvement. Maybe she can bring us some more of her very talented people to assist on that front.”

John agrees, but can’t keep himself from shuddering a little at that idea as he leaves Washington’s office. If Angelica brings in any more very talented people, their campaign headquarters is going to wind up burned to the ground in short order. 

~~~~~

Laf drags him costume shopping that evening, as promised, and despite himself, John finds himself enjoying the outing. It’s been far too long since he’s really even been out of headquarters, and it’s a gorgeous evening. Laf insists on their purchasing actual decent costumes, ones that will mask their identities thoroughly, and John has no choice but to go along, especially since Laf is buying. Not that John has much say in that, either. 

Laf tries on approximately three dozen costumes, inspecting each for their virtues in appealing to Mulligan. John tries in vain to point out that, as they’re meant to be in disguise, Mulligan won’t know who it is that’s flirting with him anyway, but Laf is not one to listen to reason. He winds up with a Scarlet Pimpernel outfit that does a truly excellent job of highlighting all his best features, though John isn’t sure how many people will really get the reference. It amuses Laf, though, and that’s worth everything. 

John tries a few costumes on half-heartedly, under Laf’s stern eye. Laf won’t let him go as Darth Vader or anything of the sort; he insists on culture and taste, and doesn’t seem to get that John is trying his very best to steer himself in the opposite direction. Eventually, they compromise on a sort of steampunk plague doctor outfit, complete with the creepy beaked mask, and John comforts himself that at least nobody will know who the hell he is at this thing. He doesn’t look or sound a bit like himself. It’s almost freeing, knowing that he can go to the damn dance without having to be on display; he can stay under the radar as much as he chooses. No eligible young ladies following him around at his father’s bidding, no enterprising hacks seeking his influence with his father, such as it was. 

And nobody is going to be able to force him to dance. 

They spot some of their colleagues out on the town, as well, all of them haunting the same stores in search of costumes. He spots Alex in one store, holding up a pirate costume in front of a mirror, and can’t help but laugh at the sight. That’s so very Alex, he thinks, and then is alarmed by how close to fond the thought feels. 

He doesn’t have room in his heart anymore to be fond of Alex. He’s not that foolish boy any longer. 

Lafayette insists on treating them both to a ridiculously extravagant meal, and John lets himself enjoy it, for once. Laf is a good friend, even if he’s completely hopeless in his pursuit of an obviously doomed campaign romance.

“It is good to see you smile so much, my friend,” Laf tells him as they head back to his car. It’s a convertible, of course, and Laf puts the top down so the unseasonably warm evening air can blow against them as they drive. It’s a good feeling - free, as if they had nowhere to be and no responsibilities on their shoulders. John stares up at the brilliant silver moon, and doesn’t stop his stupid grin. “It has been a while, I think, since you have been so at ease.”

“Well, you know what they say,” John says lazily. “Nothing like the final few weeks of a cutthroat campaign in which good and evil hang in the balance to relax the mind. After all, what do we have to worry about?”

“Be as sarcastic as you like,” Laf says easily. “But you are happier, my friend. Lighter, I think. I am glad.”

John wants to protest that he’s far from carefree. He has all the responsibilities of the campaign constantly on his mind; he’s too busy to ever get home and sleep in a real bed, or eat anything that’s not catered in; he’s got at least three potential candidates for Campaign Nemesis vying for his attention; he’s got to go to a literal actual masquerade ball; George Washington’s regard for him hangs in the balance at any moment, and if he loses that, he’s probably going to spontaneously combust. 

“I guess so,” he says, and grins at the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would beg your forgiveness, my darlings, for my long absence, but I think my time is better spent in writing new things. I do feel absolutely dreadful, of course. I just had to get through a brief few months of hating everything I've ever done (plus also surviving an election, all the holidays, the end of 2020, and the all too eventful beginnings of 2121 - so I think those are a few decent excuses!). Anyway, I'm doing my best to get back to it, because this story has been absolutely nagging me for ages not to let it go, and I don't think I shall. If there are any left to enjoy it, I am delighted! All my very best love to all of you, and thank you for your time!


	5. 2.2

Alex is at a masquerade ball. 

No, it’s not some kind of joke, or mistake, or even him finding himself on the losing end of a wager. It’s part of his job, somehow, which has instantly elevated Washington’s campaign to the weirdest one Alex has ever worked on. And that’s saying something. 

He had actually intended to raise a ruckus about the prospect, until he worked out that Jack Laurens was already doing so (in his most passive-aggressive, quiet way), and then he’d thrown himself into the project of embracing the entire thing. Inwardly, however, he’s still struggling with the inherent weirdness of the whole affair. 

The campaign has rented out a very cool venue - outdoors, under a tented pavilion lit with sparkling lights, and gotten a fantastic local restaurant to cater the event. It’s exactly what Angelica promised, in terms of community outreach and involvement, and all of Alex’s political instincts are ticking over with delight. They’ve sold a shit ton of tickets, brought the local party officials together in a way he hasn’t seen in ages, and - to be honest, in the privacy of his own mind, Alex has to admit that even he couldn’t have scared up the amount of positive press interest in a campaign event without the whole ridiculous affair. 

By the time he arrives, still struggling to get his stupid mask to fit properly, the party is in full swing. There’s a DJ somewhere, playing the most insane mix of musical genres he’s ever heard in one place, and the pavilion is absolutely crowded with people in garish, over-the-top costumes. Plenty of them have apparently missed the memo about what a masquerade ball entails and are just wearing Halloween costumes that don’t mask their features, but enough have entered into the spirit of the thing to make for a wild sight. 

Alex grins behind his heavy iron mask, pleased with himself for the completeness of his disguise. At worst, he’ll have a good time; at best, he’s curious to see whether his hidden identity will give him access to any information he couldn’t usually obtain. He’s got his heart set on trying to get something on Jefferson. Who knows - maybe the man will make a mistake in this setting, and Alex will have something to work with. 

His first problem doesn’t occur to him until he’s at the refreshment table, and realizing that his very cool Man in the Iron Mask outfit has the terrible downside of making it practically impossible for him to drink. Eating’s ok, as long as he can use a fork, but he’s going to need a straw if he’s going to get anything past the stupid mask. That’s annoying enough that he considers ditching the whole thing for a moment. He’s spent long enough looking at the crowd, though, to realize that none of Washington’s other aides have made themselves visible, and he’s not about to be the first to give up the element of surprise that the costume affords. It’s fine. He’ll figure something out. 

He’s on a mission after that - seeking out either a straw or Jefferson, whichever he may encounter first. The whirl of colors and costumes, music and twinkling lights, actually makes it damn hard to identify anyone in particular - even someone with Jefferson’s particularly flamboyant and fantastic hair. Alex may hate the man, but he gives him full credit for a great hairstyle. He spends a little while following a tall clown before deciding that’s definitely not his quarry; Jefferson would never think of himself as a figure of scorn. Someone in a fantastic fox mask grabs his arm and pulls him into a dance, and Alex goes along with it, letting himself drop the political aspect of the evening for a little bit. 

“Isn’t it wonderful?” the fox asks, and he laughs aloud as he recognizes Eliza’s voice. She’s doing nothing to bother disguising it, and is so pleased with her work that the joy practically effervesces from her. “Do you know if George and Martha are here yet?”

“No idea,” Alex admits, grinning down at her, though he knows she can’t see it. His voice is tinny and strange inside the mask, and he finds it’s quite fun, not to be certain whether she knows him or not. “Hard to identify anyone, actually!”

“Really?” Eliza sounds surprised, and her eyes go wide beneath her mask. “I haven’t had any trouble.”

“Oh yes?” He lets his amusement color his voice. “Do you know me, then, madam?”

She laughs at him. “Mr. Hamilton, I’m afraid you’d have to do more than put a tin can over your head to fool me.”

He ducks his head in acknowledgement, and spins her around in time to the music. “Fine, then. Dazzle me. Who else have you spotted?” 

“That would be cheating,” she protests. 

“Fine,” he allows, and ducks his head closer to her ear. “Just as a favor, then. Who the hell is Jefferson? I can’t find him anywhere.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Honestly, I’m surprised at you! He’s the peacock, of course!”

That makes perfect sense, as soon as she says it, though Alex defends his own lack of realization by reminding himself that he’d been looking for Jefferson’s hair, which is entirely hidden beneath shining blue-green plumage. He nods, and tries for one more. “And Jack? Have you spotted him at all?”

“Of course.” Eliza blinks up at him as the dance comes to a close, and he can see the amusement dancing in her eyes. “And I’m not going to say one word about his costume. You can find him yourself, Alex, if you’re so interested.”

“I’m not!” Alex protests. “I just figured he’d have stayed home in protest!”

“Maybe you don’t know John as well as you think you do,” Eliza says. There’s not much humor in her voice now; Alex feels somewhat abashed. “Anyway, I’ll see you around! Try not to give yourself a concussion walking into anything in that can.”

“It’s the Man in the Iron Mask!” Alex calls after her, and then gives up, and goes to look for Jefferson. 

It’s not actually too hard to find him. He’s holding court on the edge of the dance floor, talking at length to anyone who stands still long enough to be lured into his web of words. The costume really is stunning, though Alex thinks it shows a lack of self-reflection. Jefferson is currently watching the dancing couples and speaking to a dashingly dressed Scarlet Pimpernel whose attention is all on one couple. Alex creeps closer, trying to hear what they’re saying. 

“You didn’t know?” Jefferson the Peacock is saying, in his usual carrying tones, clearly convinced of his superiority. “Why, I thought everyone was aware. Of course the lady has her pick of any of the attendees here. Who would ever refuse her?”

Alex peers through the narrow eye-slits of his mask to see who it is they’re watching. The couple that whirls by is a striking pair, though he has to admit he has literally no clue who either of them are, beneath the masks. Well, he wouldn’t, at least, if one of them weren’t his roommate Hercules Mulligan, dressed in the strange clothing and facepaint that he assures Alex are an exact replica of a famous modern art piece. 

The Scarlet Pimpernel sighs heavily. If a sigh can sound French, this one does, and Alex grins in recognition. This is Lafayette - and of course he’s sighing over Hercules. That makes a terrible amount of sense - except for the fact that Herc has been doing just as much pining over him. It’s a terrible waste of time and brain cells on both of their parts, and Alex doesn’t have much empathy for the whole thing. Mutual pining is an absurdity, and no-one on the campaign ought to have time for it. 

“I did not know he had any, ah, affinity for the lady,” Laf says. Alex can hear the heartbreak in his voice. He steels himself against creeping sympathy. Laf is Jack’s friend; he can go to him for consolation if this is all going terribly wrong. Jefferson shakes his feathered head sadly. 

“You haven’t seen it? It’s plain as day, my revolutionary friend! I thought everyone in the office was aware.” He gestures toward them again as they come spinning by, and Alex tries and fails to identify Herc’s partner. “Angelica has an eye for quality, I’ve always said it. It broke my heart to turn down her advances myself, but at least it seems she’s found someone to soothe her wounded heart.”

“Oh,” Laf says. Alex can practically feel him wilting.

“Yes,” Jefferson says, his voice all sympathy. “Of course, I understand Washington himself is encouraging the match? I’m not at all sure that’s wise on the campaign trail, but who am I to criticise the man himself? I’m sure he has a clearer view of all this than any of us.”

“I,” Laf says dispiritedly. “I think I ought to be going now.” He drifts away, and Alex is perfectly positioned to see the smug smirk that Jefferson sends his way behind his back. Peacock is the right outfit for him, all right, Alex thinks angrily. He’s preening like the best of them. Alex isn’t exactly sure what he’s up to, but he hesitates a moment, torn. If he stays with Jefferson, he may be able to learn useful information. On the other hand, a very sad Scarlet Pimpernel is wandering away like a deflated balloon, and Alex knows he’s not in possession of the truth. He fights with himself for a long moment, and then gives a groan of disgust and takes off after Laf. 

“You know he’s full of shit, right?” Alex pants as soon as he’s caught up with Laf, grabbing his arm to get his attention. A couple people look at them strangely, and Steampunk Plague Doctor drifts closer, as if keeping an eye on the situation. Laf looks at him without much interest. Alex has never seen the man look so down, even if most of his face isn’t visible. Misery seems to flow off him, and Alex shakes his head. “That was Jefferson you were talking to. Everything he says is self-aggrandizing bullshit.”

“We were not speaking of him,” the Scarlet Pimpernel points out sadly. “He merely opened my eyes to what I had been unwilling to see.”

“No, he didn’t,” Alex says bluntly. “I mean, even I can see that he was tricking you, and I can’t see shit out of this stupid mask. Schuyler, in a relationship? In the middle of a campaign? You’d sooner see her climbing Mount Everest. Not that she couldn’t,” he adds thoughtfully. “Or maybe she already has? I’m not sure. But either way, Angelica Schuyler is dedicated to the job, friend. She’s not about to take her eyes off the prize for anyone.”

“No,” Laf says, still looking despondent. “But that does not mean he does not have feelings for her. Did you see the way they were dancing together?” 

“Dancing means nothing,” Alex says, waving his hand dismissively. 

“It does,” the Pimpernel insists. “I know what it is I have seen.”

“This is absurd,” Alex says. He’s already annoyed with the metallic sound of his own voice, and he’s not going to spend the whole evening babysitting a depressed, lovesick, gullible Frenchman. “No, hey, watch. You! Plague Doctor!” He takes a few strides over to the beaked, steampunk person who’s been lingering nearby this entire time. “Come on, we’re dancing.”

“No,” Plague Doctor says, backing away and nearly getting their beak tangled in a strand of lights. “I don’t dance.”

“Right now you do,” Alex insists, grabbing a gloved hand and pulling them forward. “Come on. I’m proving a point to the Scarlet Pimpernel. You can’t let me down.”

Plague Doctor hesitates a moment, then gives in. “Fine,” they say, their own voice as distorted as Alex’s. “But only because he’s a literary hero.”

By all the gods, Alex has actually managed to find a stroke of luck. His random selection has found him someone who actually knows how to dance - a good thing, because he becomes aware very quickly that he could have wound up stabbed in the face by a beak if they’d been clumsy on their feet. 

“Thanks,” Alex mutters, putting on a show of elegance and attention to his hidden partner. “We just have to demonstrate that any two idiots dancing together automatically look like they’re madly in love, and then I’ll be happy to let you go.”

“This is so stupid,” Plague Doctor says wearily. “I swore I wasn’t going to dance tonight.”

“It’s all in a good cause,” Alex insists. “I know that guy, a bit. He’s a good man, even if he keeps terrible company.”

“Company?” Plague Doctor asks, neatly avoiding stabbing Alex in the shoulder as they execute a semi-complicated change. 

“He’s infatuated with Mulligan, which is bad enough,” Alex says, though he’s well aware that his partner may not have a clue who any of Washington’s close staff are, and so this gossip will be meaningless. Oh well - he’s going to have his fun, anyway. “But he spends all his time with Jack Laurens, and that’s unforgivable.”

“Laurens?” Plague Doctor asks. Alex rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, Laurens. You must know him! He’s head of communications, for his sins. Trust me, no matter where you work in the campaign, I’m sure you’ll have had dozens of too-long emails from him.” He laughs, just a little. That had been a joke between them, once; Jack’s tendency to write far more than needed paled to nothing in light of Alex’s own ridiculous prolificness. He sobers a bit, though, realizing there’s no-one left who knows that joke. 

“Are you sure you don’t mean Hamilton?” Plague Doctor asks, voice impossible to read through the reverberation of their mask. “I can never get through a paragraph of his without wondering where his editor is.”

Alex draws himself up to object, and then remembers just in time that they’re meant to be looking couple-y for Lafayette’s benefit. “I’ve never heard that about Hamilton,” he says stiffly. “In fact, I’ve often heard it said he’s gifted with words.”

Plague Doctor laughs. “You’ll never hear that from anyone as much as from Hamilton himself,” they say. “He’s endlessly impressed with himself. I half think Washington took him on out of sympathy. A successful campaign can be a great benefit to a floundering career, even if one only mistakenly finds their way aboard at the end.”

Alex gapes, glad that his incredibly rude partner can’t see his face. Surely that isn’t the scuttlebutt among the campaign staff? He’s earned his place fair and square. It had taken an absurd amount of work to convince Angelica to bring him aboard at campaign headquarters, and he’s done absolutely nothing but work his fingers to the bone since he got there. It stings to think he might be viewed that way, as one of the political leeches seeking to suck success from a campaign. 

“I work with Hamilton from time to time,” he says stiffly, after a moment. “I’ll be sure to pass along the complaint.”

Plague Doctor shrugs. “No need. There’s no point. Hamilton’s views on himself, as on the rest of the world, are never up for modification.”

“You know him well, then?” He’s doing his best to keep bitterness as well as curiosity out of his voice, but this is beginning to be unbearable. Who is he dancing with?

They shrug again, movement slowing as the dance comes to an end. “I thought I did, once,” they mutter. Alex almost misses it. “Well, there, my friend,” Plague Doctor says, pulling their hands away and offering a little bow. “I hope we’ve put on enough of a show to convince your friend.” They’re gone, disappearing into the crowd before Alex can think of another thing to say. He makes his way slowly back to where he’d left the Scarlet Pimpernel, and opens his arms wide in triumph. 

“And there you have it.” He gives a little bow himself. “Tell me we didn’t make a handsome couple out there. I imagine you could feel the sparks from here! And we only met four minutes ago!”

Lafayette is staring at him very strangely, brow furrowed so heavily that it’s visible even under the mask. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that at all.”

Alex opens his mouth to declaim his theory of the inherent romantic appearance of dancing, but it’s derailed by the sudden appearance of Mulligan the Art Piece and Angelica the - well, honestly, Alex thinks he’s better off not making any guesses as to what she’s meant to be. He thinks he’s missing a reference, even though she looks astounding. 

“There,” Angelica says confidently, motioning Herc toward Lafayette with a flourish of her hands. “Consider yourself appropriately warned, informed, and brought to full awareness.”

“What is going on?” Laf asks, looking between them, as Herc wastes no time in taking his hand. 

“Well,” Herc says sheepishly, ignoring Alex’s existence completely. “Angelica had a few things she wanted to make sure I understood about you, and it turns out I’m more recognizable than I thought.”

“What things?” Laf asks sharply, turning on Angelica, who shrugs, grinning. 

“Someone had to give him the shovel talk,” she says matter-of-factly. “And while we’re all aware Washington will be walking you down the aisle some day, he’s got enough on his plate right now, so I took it on myself.”

“Then you were not flirting with him yourself?” Laf asks, hope dawning in his poor, depressed, lovesick, gullible eyes. Alex groans, and decides to go in search of a straw. If he doesn’t manage to consume some form of alcohol soon, he’s going to have to start some sort of trouble. 

By the time he manages to consume a reasonable amount of food and drink, the ball is starting to get somewhat depressing. Everyone seems to be coupling up - with the exception of Angelica and Jefferson, who are engaged in a shouting match that only seems to be getting louder by the moment - and the glances he sneaks at Herc and Lafayette are enough to have him dismally certain that they’re going to be planning their wedding festivities within the week. 

Alex doesn’t want to be in a relationship. Honestly, he doesn’t. He’s not sure he could ever handle a serious relationship again; certainly not anytime soon, and absolutely not on the campaign trail. In his cups, he has to admit to himself that he’s still not quite over everything that had happened at the end, before, with-

The Plague Doctor wanders by, and Alex can’t help himself. He darts after them, leaving his drink behind. “Hey,” he calls, and they turn. They’re probably watching him, but the creepy dark goggles make it impossible to tell. “Tell me who you are, so I can let Hamilton know what you said about him.”

They shake their head, the motion amplified by the huge, ridiculous beak. “I don’t think so.” There’s something like amusement in the unidentifiable voice. “I’m not looking to start drama - just making conversation.”

“But tell me who else it is that says that sort of thing about him,” Alex presses. He’s probably had too much to drink. Plague Doctor shakes their head again. 

“We all have to go back to work together tomorrow,” they point out. “Weeks before the election - it’s not time to start any trouble.”

“Trouble? What, like Hamilton is going to stir up trouble?” Alex tries. They laugh again, but it sounds tired. The party has been going for too long. 

“You’ve never been on the wrong side of his temper, then,” they say. In a moment, they’ve vanished into the crowd, and Alex is more annoyed than ever. 

He gets himself a lift home from someone other than Hercules, not really interested in hearing an entire car-ride about the wonders of Lafayette, and winds up beating his head on the wall in exasperation when he finds that Herc and Laf have beaten him home and are currently making out all over the couch. 

“DO you mind?” Alex asks sharply, dropping his mask on the floor with a sigh of relief. They break apart reluctantly, and Laf laughs at the sight of him. 

“I knew it was you!” Laf crows triumphantly. “I knew you were a decent man, beneath it all.”

“Shut up,” Alex says tiredly. “No. I’m not. You were just being an idiot.” 

“Hey,” Herc rumbles warningly, and Alex raises his hands in surrender. 

“Look, we’ve got work in the morning,” he says tiredly. “Can’t we all just go home where we belong and go to sleep?” He aims the last pointedly at Laf, who shrugs innocently.

“I am not tired,” he says, smiling at Herc with the nauseating delight of the newly infatuated, and Alex groans again. They’re going to sit up all night talking - and worse, he tells himself - and he’s not going to get any sleep at all. 

“Can’t you just go somewhere else, then?” Alex asks, well aware that he’s close to whining. Herc glares at him good-naturedly.

“If you’ve got a problem, Hamilton, go sleep at headquarters like everyone else who doesn’t have anywhere to go,” he offers. 

“No. It’s haunted,” Alex says, knowing he’s being childish. He’s tired, and wants to sleep, and frankly it’s pretty disgusting that he’s the only one around with the sense to stay out of stupid entangling relationships, particularly in the middle of the campaign.

“It is not,” Laf objects. “John just says that because he is superstitious, and not used to being alone in a house at night.” He looks at Herc, filling him in. “John is the oldest of some ridiculous number of children, you know. It’s new to him, not having noisy people around all the time.”

“So he can go home and stay with all the noisy rugrats,” Alex complains. He’s not going to let himself think about the kid siblings. He’d been unreasonably fond of them, for a while. “And you can go and hang out with the ghosts.”

“Alex,” Herc rumbles, his voice even. “We’re staying right here. If you have a problem with that, feel free to leave.”

“Not if Jack’s there,” he says mulishly. “I have to put up with him all day every day. Text him and see if he’s gone home, and if he has, I’ll go and crash there for the night.”

Laf looks at him strangely. “John always sleeps there,” he says, looking bewildered. “His father won’t have him back home anymore - not since he - how do you say it? Burned his bridges? I thought you knew him?” There’s disapproval in his eyes, and Alex has nothing to say to that. He retreats to his room and closes the door, pretending it’s soundproof. 

That’s new information, for sure. He’d assumed that Jack was still as he ever had been - but, then, he wouldn’t be working for Washington’s campaign with his father’s approval, after all. And if he’s really living at the decrepit old place they’re using for headquarters, then Jack’s effectively homeless. It’s one thing to work there; it’s another to live in it, ghosts or no. He wonders if Washington knows, and then wonders why he gives a shit. 

Jack can do whatever the hell he wants. It’s none of Alex’s business anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, kids! Look, two updates in a row! Still not making promises, but good lord have I missed this. You folks are kind beyond all reason, and I really hope to be able to finish this one without any more long breaks. 
> 
> For those still tracking the Abuse of Classics of Literature thing, that's very much still a thing here, though I'm taking a great many liberties and adding plenty of plot points of my own. Because I can. Lord, I'd forgotten the joys of exercising petty tyranny over your own fiction. And, y'all? It is about to get FUN here! 
> 
> Thanks so much for coming back and giving me another chance, you guys. Hope you enjoy reading a fraction as much as I've enjoyed writing! <3 - Kivrin.


	6. 2.3

It takes about four minutes after Lafayette and Hercules are an official couple for the headquarters-wide betting pool to get going. They try to keep it under the radar at first, but they’re honestly a lot better at politics than subterfuge, and it doesn’t last long. The game is up for certain when Washington gets wind of it and pulls Laf into his office for a quiet word.

“Betting pool,” he says evenly, looking at Laf with that expression - the one that Laf has never ever been able to defend against. He thinks through about six different excuses, gives them all up as a bad job, and sits down with a sigh. Nothing but honesty is ever the acceptable policy, where Washington is concerned.

“It’s nothing bad,” he assures his mentor, waving both hands to show his earnestness. “No harm in it at all, I swear!”

“What’s the subject matter?” Washington asks, raising an eyebrow.

Laf heaves a sigh. Someday he’ll manage to have a conversation with the man that doesn’t make him feel a bit like a recalcitrant teenager. This is not that day. “It’s because of our relationship, you see,” he says, and knows he’s already starting to turn red. “Hercules and myself.”

“The office gossip has kept me informed,” Washington agrees, pleasantly enough. “What does that have to do with this underground gambling ring? They’d better not be betting on whether you two make it as a couple.” He looks a little dangerous at that idea, and Laf waves it off.

“Not at all! It’s not actually about us at all.” Washington looks confused, and Laf takes a deep breath for an explanation. “It’s Alex Hamilton and John Laurens, you see. Somehow, we have found ourselves sharing company with the two least romantically-minded people I have ever met. They spend all the time they’re not bickering with one another arguing against romance in every form, both of them swearing their own disinterest in ever engaging in such follies and bemoaning the foolishness of the rest of the human race for not following their lead.” He shakes his head sadly. “So, the betting pool is on which one of them will lose it first, publicly, to tell me or Hercules how foolish we are being. They both look like they’re about to explode any time they see us together, but have, so far, been models of courtesy - but that cannot possibly last. Most people are betting on Alex cracking first,” Laf adds conspiratorially, “but I am certain it will be John. He is losing patience faster.”

Washington pauses to take all of this in, and he maintains his studious frown, but Laf knows him. He sees the crinkles of amusement forming around his eyes, and knows he is not going to disapprove.

“It’s been, what? Three days, so far?” Washington asks thoughtfully, consulting his calendar. Laf nods. “I’ve heard some of John’s impassioned speeches on the topic. I’ll put twenty on him cracking before the end of the week,” Washington says quietly, and Laf nearly explodes with laughter.

~~~~~

He and Hercules have the best jobs in the entire campaign just now, Lafayette is certain. They’re spending the majority of their days criss-crossing the state of Virginia, seeing to Get Out The Vote drives and voter registration events, coordinating support on the ground for the monumental challenges of voting day to come - all of which means that they both get to travel together, and that they get a welcome break from the noise and chaos of campaign headquarters. Much as they both enjoy their work and the rest of the campaign staff, there are times when their crowded workplace is less enjoyable to be in than others. Especially since Jefferson has come aboard.

They make plans to meet up with Angelica and Eliza Schuyler for dinner after a long day of work in the Northern Virginia precincts. The Schuyler sisters have both been on the ground a great deal as of late, and their schedules line up nicely. It’s good to spend time together, though Eliza reminds them all firmly as they sit down that political talk is forbidden for the evening.

That is absolutely not a problem for Laf. He always has a thousand topics of conversation, and he and Herc are still in the fun, getting-to-know-you stage of the relationship where they haven’t heard all of one another’s stories yet. It’s Eliza who brings up the masquerade ball, naturally, and he thinks she’s more than a little proud at the idea that her work may have contributed to their getting together. He’s pretty sure it would have happened anyway, but he’s not about to criticize. The ball had been a fantastic evening, and it makes for a great story.

“Oh!” Laf says, interrupting Angelica in the middle of teasing Herc about his terrified expression during her dance/lecture. It’s rude, but he’s got to say what’s just occurred to him before he forgets or the conversation moves on. “I have not told you what Alex did during that dance!”

“Alex Hamilton?” Eliza enquires, and Laf rolls his eyes. What other Alex is there?

“He decided I was moping, for some reason,” Laf says airily, “and wanted to show me that all dancing looks like romance, so he forced a bystander to dance with him.”

“And?” Angelica says, waiting for the point.

“I do not think he knew,” Laf says, drawing out the suspense. “But it was John who he took dancing!”

Eliza claps a hand to her mouth in surprise, and Hercules raises an eyebrow. “Really?” Herc asks. “He hates Laurens.”

“That is why it is amusing!” Laf insists. “Alex had no idea it was John under that mask, and I do not believe John had any idea he was dancing with Alex. He would never have put up with it, had he known!”

“Oh my god,” Angelica says, her eyes flashing with amusement. “The way the two of them hate each other? Can you imagine if they had any idea what they’d done? They’d be scrubbing themselves down with bleach to remove all traces!”

“It’s such a shame!” Eliza exclaims. “I can just imagine what the two of them could accomplish if they could just get along!”

“They looked like they were getting along just fine on the dance floor,” Laf says meaningfully, waggling his eyebrows. “It is only that they think they hate one another.”

“I don’t know, man,” Herc puts in thoughtfully. “The amount of time Alex spends ranting about Laurens, I think he genuinely can’t stand him. He scarcely talks about anything else, other than work.”

“Like John is so much better? Believe me, it is not only for the sake of your lovely company that I am glad to get away, sometimes,” Laf insists.

“The two of them deserve each other,” Eliza says.

“They do, at that,” Angelica proclaims. There’s such certainty in her tone that the rest turn to look at her, intrigued. “Think about it. If the two of them were together, none of the rest of us would have to put up with their complaining. The peace that would descend upon headquarters would be worth a full-time staffer’s salary.”

“But they hate each other,” Herc points out bluntly.

Angelica smiles, and Laf makes a mental note to never, ever cross her in anything. “They think they do,” she says calmly. “But what if they didn’t?”

“Just come out and say it, whatever you’re trying to hint at!” Eliza gives her sister a little shove.

“Follow me on this, then,” Angelica says. She drops her voice lower and leans in conspiratorially, though no-one within earshot is even slightly interested in their conversation. “What if they thought, each of them, that the other was in love with them?” They look at one another in confusion, and Angelica holds up a hand for patience. “No, just think about it. If Laurens, for example, honestly believed that Hamilton was madly in love with him and doing his best to hide it, do you think he wouldn’t respond to that?”

Laf wrinkles his nose in thought. He’s genuinely not certain, even though John is his best friend. In general, he would say that John’s compassion for others would make him take pity - but on Alex? He does not know all of what is in their past, but John has more issues with Alex than he had ever imagined possible.

“That’s a good point,” Eliza says slowly. “And if Alex were convinced that John was crazy about him…”

“He’d be on that in a heartbeat,” Herc chimes in. “Nothing Alex likes better than people who think he’s awesome.”

“You honestly think you can make them stop fighting by convincing them of these false affections?” Laf asks doubtfully, and Angelica shakes her head slowly, her smile growing.

“No. I think I can make them fall in love. Genuinely, head-over-heels in love with one another.”

“You’re insane,” Eliza says, in tones of breathless wonder. “John and Alex, in love? You have to be joking.”

“Nope,” Angelica says. “It wouldn’t be easy, but I think we could pull it off. It would take everyone’s help, though.”

“It would be funny as hell,” Herc allows, leaning back in his chair.

“And you can’t deny that it would help morale around headquarters, especially as we head into the last six weeks of the campaign,” Eliza says, sounding like she’s warming to the idea.

“And if it goes wrong?” Laf asks. He hates to be the buzzkill, but he’s seen John deal with the aftermath of failed relationships before, and it hasn’t been pretty. Tricking him into one seems to be asking for trouble. “Do we have any right to do such a thing?”

“Hey,” Herc objects. “We’re not talking about forcing them to do anything, right?”

“Of course not,” Angelica assures him. “Just dropping a hint here, a thread of gossip there, and then sitting back and seeing what comes of it.”

“They both have decent senses of humor,” Eliza agrees. “When it all comes out, I’m sure they’ll be the first to laugh at themselves for how they’ve acted, and they’ll see why we wanted to have a little fun!”

“But we will not do anything that interferes with their wishes, correct?” Laf asks. The idea has so much amusement potential that it’s hard to make himself try to be the good guy here.

“No,” Angelica agrees. “And besides, Laf, you’re overlooking the best possible outcome. Wouldn’t you like to see them both happy, the way you are?” She nods significantly at Herc, and Laf feels his heart do that butterflies-on-the-wing thing that always makes him grin goofily. It is true, of course. There’s little in life to rival the thrill of being in love. Perhaps it is the lack of that joy that is John’s and Alex’s main difficulty, after all.

“Fine,” he says, letting go of his qualms and grinning around the table. “We must simply be sure it does not get out of hand.”

“How could it possibly?” Eliza asks, laughing. “Just consider it an early Valentine’s Day effort, with us in the starring role of Cupid!”

~~~~~

Once they’ve set their minds to it, everything moves fairly quickly. Laf and Herc spend an evening cuddled up on the couch, faking a text thread between themselves, both of them struggling not to howl with laughter at the absurdity of what they’re writing.

L: I do not care what you think you saw, my buttercup. You must not speak of this to Alex!

H: I don’t even know what I think. What the hell was all that about?

L: It was in confidence. I shouldn’t tell you.

H: Come on, babe! You know I won’t say a word to anyone

L: Very well, but you must keep it quiet, especially at work. John would be mortified if anyone knew about it!

H: Then he really does have a crush on Alex?

L: Oh god, that is not even the half of it! I must hear, day and night, of how brilliant and talented and driven Alex is, how he is unparalleled in every way, how he is the most charming and witty man John has ever known! I am thinking of leaving him to be murdered by his imaginary ghost just to be free of Alex Hamilton’s praises!

H: No way. Laurens hates him!

L: No, indeed he does not! He is enamoured of Alex in the extreme, and he is terrified for anyone to know. It is why he tries so hard to push him away, to fight him on every point, so that Alex will not suspect his affections.

H: I can’t blame him. I love Alex like a brother, man, but he can be spiteful. I wouldn’t want to go around confessing that shit, either, just for him to mock and make fun.

They force themselves to stop there, though it’s amusing enough that both of them could go on for hours, and Laf takes careful screenshots of the whole thing, ready for the next day.

He finds Alex bright and early the next morning - fortunately, a day that he and Herc are both around the office - and strikes up conversation. Well, as much of a conversation as anyone can have with Alex before his third or fourth cup of coffee, anyway.

“Oh, by the way,” he says innocently as he stands up to leave. “I have a few quotes from volunteers at our last few campaign stops that I thought might be of use to you in your next communication with the media. Perhaps the basis of a positive article on our increased voter turnout predictions and the enthusiasm of the base. Would that be of any use to you?”

“Shit, yeah,” Alex says, perking up a little. “That would be awesome! I’ve been meaning to work on that angle since you and Herc got busy out on the road.”

“I will send it to you directly!” Laf says cheerfully, and wanders away to his own desk. He pulls up the prepared document, where he does indeed have such quotes - but where he has also ‘accidentally’ copied in their text conversation. He sends the file to Alex with a flourish, and then kicks Herc in the ankle to let him know their trap has been baited.

It’s like watching a piece of paper catch fire - slow and almost imperceptible, and then suddenly bursting into flame. Alex’s face goes blank with confusion when he first gets to their trap, and Herc and Laf both manage to be busy at their work when he darts a suspicious glance over at them. In a moment, he’s hunched over his phone, staring at it with such intensity that they can both watch him openly without him being aware.

“Think it’s working, man?” Herc whispers.

Laf watches how Alex’s mouth drops open in shock, how he scrolls up and down, clearly reading the texts over again, how he gives a tiny shake of his head, like he’s trying to dislodge water.

“I do indeed,” Laf mutters, and then he kicks Herc again, because the timing could not be more perfect. John is just coming into the room, talking with Eliza and paying no attention to Alex, and Laf clenches his fists in anticipation.

Alex stands up so suddenly his folding chair collapses behind him, and it is about the funniest thing Lafayette has ever witnessed. He’s gone a weird combination of pasty and flushed, so that it looks like someone dropped a drawer of makeup over his head, and his eyes are so wide, looking at John, that it’s got to be hurting. Alex fumbles with his phone, turning it off, then on again, and then throwing it guiltily into his laptop bag, as though it is incriminating evidence. His eyes are fixed on John with a startling intensity - until John looks his way, and then Alex is suddenly scrambling under their shared desk for some imaginary item he hasn’t dropped. He’s increasingly flustered when he re-emerges, and does not look behind him as he goes to sit down.

The crash as Alex collapses on the heap of useless folding chair is enough to startle everyone from their work, and it takes everything Laf has not to howl with laughter. Alex is gone in a heartbeat, vanishing from the room with some muttered excuse that none of them are fast enough to catch, and Herc clutches at Laf’s shoulders, stifling his own laughter.

“How can that possibly have worked?” Herc hisses in his ear, and Laf has to bite his tongue hard to maintain control. John shoots them a suspicious glance, and Laf just shrugs, trying his best to look innocent. Eliza has ducked out of the room, burying her mouth beneath both hands, and Angelica is outside Washington’s office, observing it all with a cool, calm demeanor that Laf envies. She gives them an almost imperceptible nod. Stage one is finished.

Sadly, he does not get to bear witness to the next stage. That is left in the hands of the Schuyler sisters, who manage to arrange for Alex to overhear their conversation while they pretend not to notice him. Angelica, playing her part as the consummate professional, tells Eliza to advise John to keep his mouth shut, warning that the campaign does not need any further drama, or for Alex to do anything unprofessional. It seems that there are rumors in the political world about his temper, and some history of having caused trouble before on campaigns. It makes the perfect excuse for her to warn John off - and Laf is convinced that if their texts had not been enough to convince him, Angelica’s participation in the scheme will end it all. They’re all a bit in awe of her, Alex more than most. If she says John needs to keep his affections concealed, Alex is going to believe every word of it.

The next bit is even harder, in that it requires waiting. Angelica has advised them that they need to leave everything alone for a while, to give Alex time to turn things over in his mind and wind himself further into their trap. It doesn’t take long. Herc texts that evening to let him know that Alex is distracted and preoccupied, and that he’s spent more time staring at his phone than Herc has ever seen before. The next morning, Alex comes to find Laf.

“Hey, hi, morning,” Alex says nervously, gulping coffee as if it holds the answer to all of his problems. “So, you know, I was just looking over those quotes you sent and everything. Great stuff, for sure. You, uh. You just copied all that off your phone?”

“I like to make notes as I go,” Laf says easily, gesturing with his phone. “Did you need them in a different format or something? I could type it up for you.”

“No!” Alex says, gesticulating wildly with his coffee mug. Laf is very glad it has a lid. “No, no, that’s fine! It’s all fine.” He glances around again, and runs a hand through his hair. Laf is suddenly very, very amused to note that Alex has actually done something with it - a first, for sure. He’s put some sort of hair product in. It’s not actually helping at all, but it is an interesting indication. “So, uh, where’s Jack this morning?” Alex asks, would-be casual tone betrayed by how fast his eyes are darting around the room. “Sleeping late, I imagine?” He gives a strange little chuckle.

“Ahh, no, of course not,” Laf tells him easily. “He had a meeting with Washington first thing this morning. I imagine they will not be much longer. Did you have something you needed to talk with him about?”

“No!” Alex backs up toward his own desk, shaking his head. “Nope, no, nope. Everything’s fine. All good.” He stands his chair up carefully, double-checking to see that it is not going to collapse on him again, and takes his seat, staring back and forth between his phone and Washington’s door with ill-hidden unease.

“If we drive him crazy and he murders us all, I really am going to haunt this place,” Laf tells Herc, and Herc has to dash out of the room to hide his amusement.

He shouldn’t take the risk, he knows it, but Laf cannot help himself. When John emerges from Washington’s office and heads over to his own desk, pointedly ignoring Alex, Laf makes his way slowly to the bookshelf nearest the two young men, beginning to look through stacks of papers and files for something he doesn’t need.

“Morning,” Alex says, in a voice more laden with awkwardness than Laf had thought he possessed. John just grunts, booting up his computer with a yawn, and trying to rub the stiffness out of his neck. Sleeping bags on hardwood floors are not always conducive to good rest, Laf knows. Alex pauses a moment, then tries again. “How’s, umm. How’s the family?”

John slaps a hand on the table between them, rolling his eyes as he turns to face Alex. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

Alex blinks at him, surprise warring with realization in his face. “I just wondered, you know. Haven’t heard much about them of late.” Polite conversation may be the death of him. Laf may have to give himself a papercut to keep himself from giggling. Alex is so wrongfooted, trying to work out how to approach this new situation, that Laf really wishes he were capturing it on camera for his friends who cannot be there to see it at the moment.

“Yes, fine,” John says coolly. “So I’m not exactly welcome at home anymore, and thank you so much for pointing that out. But, then, isn’t that what you always wanted?” He glares at Alex, who might as well be doing calculus in his head, from the looks of things. “So much for ‘honesty is the best policy.’ I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, thanks.”

Laf frowns at that, unable to make proper sense of it. It’s been obvious since Alex stepped through the door that he and John have some shared experience in the past that’s added to their difficulties. He suddenly wonders whether he ought to have learned more about what that was before they went and started meddling - but it’s too late, now.

“Jack,” Alex says, looking sincerely concerned. “I didn’t mean-”

“And I didn’t mean for a lot of things to happen,” John says tiredly. “Let’s just drop it and leave it alone, OK?” He rubs his eyes. “Coffee,” John mutters, and gets off and wanders towards the kitchen, leaving a bewildered looking Alex behind.

Laf grabs his phone to message Herc that John is incoming, and almost dies of shock when Alex comes up beside him, forehead wrinkled into deep lines of concern.

“Hey, stop texting your boyfriend for a moment,” Alex mutters, rubbing at his temples. “I need to talk to you.”

“What is it?” Laf says, trying to keep his voice from sounding guilty.

“So, uh,” Alex says hesitantly. “I think I may have screwed something up. Possibly badly.”

“Most of us do, from time to time,” Laf offers.

“I don’t,” Alex starts, and blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m supposed to be good at communicating! Why can’t I even figure out how to start talking?”

“You generally do not suffer from difficulties on that front,” Laf agrees, maintaining a facade of ignorance. He’s going to have to take up acting, at this rate.

“Have you ever,” Alex starts, looking nervous. “Have you ever, like, really hurt someone’s feelings? Maybe you didn’t mean to, or you didn’t realize you were doing it, but you really mess up?”

“It may have happened a time or two,” Laf allows.

“What if it was just a really good person, you know?” Alex asks, staring at the door to the kitchen. “And you didn’t mean to, but by the time you realize what you’ve done it’s too late to fix it?”

“In France, we have a delightful tradition,” Laf says drily. “In English, I think you would call it ‘an apology.’ Perhaps you could try this?”

“I think it’s past that,” Alex says, very distant all of a sudden. “I don’t think he wants to hear it from me.” He thinks hard for a moment, and then brightens a bit. “Or maybe that’s exactly what he does want!”

“Who are we talking about?” Laf asks, cocking his head to one side. Alex backs up, giving a very strange little laugh.

“No-one! Don’t worry about it!”

_I think we got him_ , Laf texts, and a flurry of delighted emojis come back in response.

Time to move on to the next phase of the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a little disclaimer, kids, don't ever do this to your friends! It's terrible and manipulative and only funny if it's fiction! Let me not be accused of morally corrupting the youth of tomorrow with bad literary examples. (Also, if you're not pretty clear by now on what I'm doing, may I suggest that more Shakespeare is always better? That's just a moral precept, my ducklings.)
> 
> Anyway. I'm having far, far too much fun with this. I hope you may be enjoying it as well! It only gets more absurd from here! Good lord, I'm going to have to write so much Angst to make up for this when I'm done...
> 
> Thanks, as ever and always, for reading, and for commenting when you have time and ability! It's so encouraging. (Also I haven't talked to another human other than my kids in about a million years now, so I'm stupidly happy to be able to communicate with you lot this way. I'm not pathetic. I'm Saving Lives by Staying Home, y'all. It's very noble of me. I have entirely forgotten how to communicate like a reasonable person.)


	7. 2.4

Alex is acting weird.

Not that John would call that particularly notable, most of the time. Alex Hamilton has his own standards of behavior - for himself and others - and abides by his own code of morality, manners, and propriety. John has known him to forget to sleep for days at a time and then fall asleep in a highly public place with no regard for how it looks; he’s known Alex to deliver multi-hour speeches that no-one has asked for.

He has never known him to be this awkward before.

Alex doesn’t do awkward. He is so supremely confident in himself that he carries himself with a grace John used to envy. He charges forward, guns blazing, and doesn’t stop to see whether he’s accidentally run anyone over.

But now, all of a sudden, Alex is a stuttering, nervous wreck. He won’t make eye contact at all, he keeps dropping things off their desk and having to go after them, and John is pretty sure he’s trying to make small talk.

Alex sucks at small talk.

He’s about concluded it’s some new form of torture Alex has devised to make him, John, personally crazy. Maybe he’s planning to try to drive him out of the campaign through sheer weirdness? If so, he’s got a harder battle ahead than he can possibly be ready for. John is not leaving Washington’s campaign, not for anything. He’s going to be the last one there, sweeping up the mess after the governor’s swearing-in ceremony. He doesn’t really let himself dwell on what comes after that, except to hold a vague hope that maybe Washington will have a place for him on his staff. He’ll do everything he can to earn it, anyway.

Or maybe Alex is dying? That’s a more concerning possibility. Not for John personally, obviously, but in general, it’s a shame when people die. Maybe Alex has gotten some sort of terrible, terminal diagnosis and is trying to make it through his last months in this strange, strange fashion?

John allows for the possibility that he’s allowing himself to become a little overdramatic. The campaign is at a challenging phase, the social atmosphere inside headquarters just keeps getting weirder all the time, and he’s pretty sure the ghost has taken up residence in his stolen room. He’s under a lot of pressure.

Still, the Alex thing is very strange, and he really doesn’t know what to do about it. Not that it’s his business at all; not that he needs to do anything, where Alex is concerned. Not anymore. He tries to mention it to Laf, but talking to Laf about anything but Herc right now is generally not particularly successful.

He makes it through two days of this strange new variant of Hamilton before he gets the first clue as to what’s going on. It does not make things simpler or more straightforward.

It’s the Schuyler sisters, of course. They’re the only ones around headquarters anything like the crazy hours John keeps. Usually, they all manage well, coming and going without disturbing each other. That evening being a Friday, John expects he’ll have the place to himself. Laf is off with Herc, of course, and everyone else has scattered off home for the weekend. John doesn’t allow himself too much time to think about that. He’s busy. He’ll figure things out with his dad after the campaign is over, after the dust settles, after Henry Laurens decides he’s willing to overlook all of John’s flaws and the fact that he’s now working for Henry’s political enemies.

Those are all concerns for a different day. John goes to see what might be left in the kitchen, and almost jumps out of his skin when he realizes he isn’t alone in the old house. His heart only pounds for a moment or two, until he recognizes their voices, together in the big old dining room where there’s usually such a cacophony of noise that two voices would be drowned out. That’s all fine, of course. He keeps going, headed for the kitchen, until some of what they’re actually saying starts to make it to his ears.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Liza!” Angelica says, and John can just imagine the eye-roll that accompanies the words. “Alex is not about to do himself an injury!”

That stops John dead, and his mind instantly starts whirling. Had he been right about Alex having some weird medical condition? He freezes, waiting for more information.

“Not on purpose,” Eliza protests. “But you haven’t seen him the past few days. He’s an absolute wreck!”

“I’ve known him a bit longer than you have,” Angelica assures her. “That’s just typical Hamilton behavior. He’s over the top in everything. Hyperbole is his primary means of communication.”

“But he’s not communicating!” Eliza says. “That’s exactly the problem. He’s trying to keep it all to himself, and just - pining, Angelica! He’s pining. It’s terrible to watch.”

“We’re not rescuing him from his own poor choices,” Angelica warns. “He’s made his bed. Let him sleep in it.”

Eliza sighs. John can’t help himself. He creeps a little closer, fascinated, though not willing to show it. He’s not about to take public interest in anything to do with Alex Hamilton.

“He’s less effective at his job,” Eliza wheedles, and John has to nod silently at that. Whatever is going on with Alex - pining, or dying, or whatever - even John has seen the difference in his work output. It’s strange, to say the least. No matter what’s happened between them, John can never remember having seen Alex not working, not busy, not producing. The past two days have been different. “Couldn’t you talk to him? He’ll listen to you.”

“I am not giving Hamilton romantic advice,” Angelica says flatly. “What is going on around here these days? I feel like I’m back in high school!”

Romantic advice, for a pining Alex? John tries to make sense of that. Who the hell could Alex be pining after? He’s shown no signs of interest in anyone. Alex had never had anything like subtlety in the past where it came to affairs of the heart.

“I couldn’t figure him out at first,” Eliza says thoughtfully. “How he could be so lovely and thoughtful and kind to everyone - except to John. Now I’m embarrassed it took me so long to work it out!”

John is pretty sure he’s missing whatever step in that equation led to enlightenment for Eliza.

He can hear Angelica sigh. “I am not about to go looking into whatever backstory those two have. That boy came in here with his head screwed on wrong, where it comes to Laurens - but that doesn’t mean that we have time to play relationship counselor and help him work out his unrequited affections.”

“But it’s so sad!” Eliza protests.

“And it’s not our business, Eliza,” Angelica says firmly. “If he’s really so in love with Laurens, he needs to stop acting like a schoolboy picking on his crush and deal with it himself.”

In love with Laurens?

John sits down hard on the floor, trying to make any of that make sense. Alex, in love with him? The Schuylers were interpreting Alex’s well-known annoyance with John and lack of respect for anything he did as - what, misplaced affection?

The Schuylers hadn’t been there at the end of their former...acquaintanceship, though. The Schuylers hadn’t heard Alex’s angry rant in his father’s campaign headquarters, hadn’t seen how Alex was willing to burn down every bridge and tie that had ever linked them together, and then just...walked away. He’d left John to deal with all of the fallout, with his father and everything else, and never looked back. How the hell could anyone think Alex still cared about John at all, after what had passed between them?

He brings his hands up to rub at his face, then shoves his fingers up into his hair, tangling in his curls, as he tries to think all of this through.

Alex is Alex, as much as ever, if not more so. His entrance a few weeks ago had brought all of it flooding back to John - Alex’s brilliance and arrogance, his passion and biting wit, his impatience and drive and absolute lack of regard for his own welfare in the face of political demands. He almost can’t cope with that, with having all of Alex Hamilton back in his life, larger than life; he’s done his best to get through, day by day.

But Alex has changed, too, John thinks, blinking rapidly. His determination to convince Laf at the masquerade ball that Jefferson had been lying to him, to show him that Hercules wasn’t flirting with Angelica - it had been genuine, kind and sweet in a way that Alex hadn’t always been. It had been enough to get John through the awkwardness of that dance - aided, of course, by the amusement of teasing Alex when he clearly had no idea who he was talking to.

By the time John manages to get himself to his feet, he’s accomplished nothing but confusing himself to no end. The Schuylers are gone; the old house is deserted, but for John and his ghost, and he has no idea how he’s going to even look at Alex on Monday. It’s all nonsense, of course-

Except, what if it isn’t? What if there actually is a cause for Alex’s recent weirdness? What if Eliza is right?

John has no clue how to even think about handling that.

~~~~~

He spends the weekend overthinking everything, and doing laundry. Laf is, of course, absolutely unreachable - so wrapped up in his new relationship that he’s not even aware of everything else he’s missing. John can’t quite bring himself to resent it, though, not when he’s seen how happy his friend is.

By Monday morning, he’s worked a few things out.

The first is that of course Eliza and Angelica were mistaken. Neither of them really knows Alex, and obviously he hadn’t said anything to them about his supposed love for John. Their theory doesn’t make a lick of sense, no matter how he turns it around in his head. Alex has no use for John, for which no blame can be attached to him.

The second is that whatever is wrong with Alex, John needs to be more sympathetic to it. If it’s bad enough that he’s fooled the Schuylers into thinking he’s wasting away of unrequited affection, it’s not just John’s imagination. Just in case he actually is dying or something, John resolves to be nicer to him.

The third, he barely admits even to himself. On the chance - just the tiniest, impossible chance - that Eliza and Angelica were actually right, that Alex did have feelings for him for some reason - well. John has a bottomless well of guilt bubbling just under his heart, telling him that he’s honestly treated Alex no better than Alex has treated him. Frankly, they’ve both been absolutely shitty to one another - and if there’s a chance, any chance, that Alex was doing it to cover up a hopeless hidden crush, then John has behaved atrociously.

One way or another, though, he’s going to keep out of it. All of it. He doesn’t have the ability to take a risk. He hasn’t got the kind of heart that can take the blows again.

John manages to beat everyone else to work (the morning commute is not to be scoffed at!) and has himself installed at his half-a-desk with awful coffee, hard at work, before anyone else comes in. They’re in the last six weeks, now; their polling is good, their base enthusiasm is far more robust than anyone had predicted, and Washington seems to be the kind of golden candidate who nothing negative sticks to. John is more realist than optimist, most of the time, but even he is beginning to actually hope that they might win this thing - as long as he can convince some of his colleagues to keep their focus on the work, where it belongs.

John’s spirits on that front immediately go into a nosedive as people begin to shuffle in, grumpy and decaffeinated. Laf and Herc are there, attached at the hip, giggling over some shared secret like schoolchildren. Eliza wanders by to stare meaningfully at Alex’s empty seat every five minutes, shaking her head and looking concerned. Half the staff linger in the hallway, discussing the betting pool that John isn’t supposed to know exists. It’s all he can do not to nod in solemn sympathy with Angelica as she strides through, looking as though she despairs of all of them.

“Where’s Hamilton?” Angelica asks briskly, and John shrugs.

“Running late, I suppose. I haven’t seen or heard anything.”

“Fine,” she says, looking grim. “Tell him when he gets here that I need to speak to him - if he bothers to show up, that is.” John nods, feeling somehow as though he is the one being scolded. Angelica nods and walks away, and then turns back to him. “Oh, and Washington wants to meet with you later. 2:00?” There’s nothing to be done about that but nod. Washington’s word is law.

Alex actually isn’t even that late. He’s in his seat less than fifteen minutes after most of their colleagues had arrived, barely bothering to look up from his phone even as he sets up his laptop.

“Morning,” John says, forcing himself to be polite. He reminds himself that Alex is probably dying of something awful, and pastes a smile on his face. “Angelica asked me to pass along the message that she wanted to talk to you.”

Alex looks up, surprise all over his face, and they actually make eye contact. John is pretty sure they’ve avoided that entirely for the past few weeks. “Oh,” Alex says. “I, uh. Thanks.”

“Sure,” John says, and looks away. Alex is too intense for this early on a Monday morning.

“No,” Alex says, forcing his attention back. “I mean it. Thank you for passing that on. I appreciate you taking the time.”

John blinks at him. Alex doesn’t sound a bit sarcastic, or mean, or as though there’s a hidden meaning to his words. He sounds - grateful, and far more pleased than the stupid little message ought to have made him.

“It wasn’t exactly a huge effort,” John says, suddenly feeling ashamed of himself. How awfully had he been treating Alex, that one sincere sentence would cause such an outpouring of gratitude? “I didn’t have to get out of my seat or anything.” Feeling very daring, he chances a tiny smile - a real one, genuine, if shortlived.

Alex laughs - like John has said something funny. Not at him, but with him? “Seat. Right,” he says, shaking his head. “I see what you did there.”

John doesn’t. He blinks at Alex, puzzled. Maybe Alex really is dying, and has come to work high on some sort of medication.

“Hamilton!” Angelica snaps, interrupting a truly bizarre moment. “A word?”

Alex leaps up and is gone, leaving a very confused John in his wake.

~~~~~

The day just keeps getting weirder. Alex, continuing his streak of odd behavior, is unfailingly nice. Mostly to John, on the occasions they have call to interact, but to other people as well. Angelica watches him like a hawk, and John sees that he’s doing better about actually accomplishing his work - but he also keeps falling into moments of reverie, staring off into the distance or gazing sightlessly at his laptop screen with his hands unmoving.

John texts Laf before lunch. _Alex is dying, isn’t he?_

Laf doesn’t even bother to answer him, but John hears him howl with laughter from across the room, which is unhelpful in the extreme. He avoids Laf at lunchtime out of spite.

By the time 2:00 rolls around, John has made up his mind to see if Washington has any clue what could be going on. His own productivity is shot, his concentration dashed to pieces by the mystery that is Alex Hamilton. Again. He is never, ever going to be free of Alex.

He tugs at his shirt and runs a hand over his unruly hair as he stands up to go to his meeting with Washington. He should have taken more care with his grooming that morning, he thinks.

“You look great,” Alex says, not looking up. “Stop worrying. It’s Washington, he loves you.”

John stands frozen for a long minute. Alex is...complimenting him now? Encouraging him? He pinches himself surreptitiously, and is surprised when it hurts.

“I don’t understand anything anymore,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way to Washington’s office.

Washington is unusually sober as he welcomes John in and indicates he should take a seat.

“My very favorite Laurens,” he says, and John feels the familiar rush of pleasure at the teasing address. “How are you this week, young man?”

“I can’t complain, sir,” John says, trying not to grin like an idiot. “Ready to get into it in the home stretch here.”

“Excellent!” Washington says, nodding approval. “You’ve been doing top-notch work, and I’ll need you to keep that up through these last few weeks.”

“Absolutely, sir,” John agrees. “It’s my pleasure, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir, John,” Washington says. His smile fades a bit. “Now, I’m afraid I have a less enjoyable topic to bring up. I know you’ve been working fairly closely with Mr. Hamilton these past few weeks.” John nods. “Tell me, young man - what do you think of his work?”

“Alex is brilliant, sir,” John says honestly. “He’s done more with the press in two weeks than I’d have been able to accomplish in two months.”

“Hmmmm,” Washington says. He steeples his fingers and looks over them. “And yet, I’ve heard concerning reports on his behavior and work over the past week or so. Angelica tells me he’s struggling to fulfill his obligations, and that he is distracted.”

Washington is the one person John never, ever wants to deceive or disappoint in any way. He nods, reluctantly. “A bit, perhaps, sir. I don’t know what’s going on. You don’t think he’s - well, sick, do you?”

“Sick?” Washington asks, looking surprised.

“Yes, sir,” John says. He remembers how quickly his mother had faded, her lively laugh and strong arms withered away to nothing but memory in a matter of weeks. “I mean, he hasn’t said anything of the sort, but something is clearly wrong, and I thought maybe you’d have heard…”

Washington shakes his head. It may be John’s imagination, but he would almost think the man was amused, if it weren’t for how inappropriate that would be. “I think Hamilton is as hale and hearty as he has ever been,” he says. “My question is whether he still belongs on this campaign.”

“Sir?” John sits up, surprised.

Washington spreads his hands wide. “John, I know you of all people are familiar with some of the less flattering parts of Hamilton’s political history. That stunt he pulled near the end of your father’s campaign - well, let’s just say those sorts of things never stay within the campaign circles. For the past five years, I understand, most reputable campaign managers have been reluctant to work with him.”

“That’s why he was floating around in county-level volunteer positions,” John says, beginning to put the pieces together. Washington nods.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t have taken the risk except that Angelica swore he was worth it. Now, though, I hear that he’s distracted, not pulling his weight. I can’t take the risk that he’s going to drag this campaign down with another crazy stunt, or even damage our prospects by not doing his job.”

John’s voice is thick in his throat, like there’s a physical lump there. If Alex gets himself fired from this campaign, his political dreams are up in smoke. Riding a winning campaign to the top and getting a career boost is one thing; being thrown off a campaign this close to the end is another. He and Alex might not be friends anymore; he might still be carrying a burden of hurt from five years before - but does it go deep enough for him to let Alex drown?

“Does Angelica know what’s going on to cause his issues?” John asks.

Washington raises an eyebrow. “Now, that’s where it gets interesting. Angelica and Eliza have both come to see me about Hamilton, with different interpretations. Angelica thinks he’s not cut out for a campaign of this calibre - that he’s choking due to the pressures of the campaign.” John feels his face make an unsubtle grimace of disagreement, and Washington chuckles a little. “Eliza, on the other hand, feels that Hamilton’s afflictions are a matter of the heart.” Washington looks at John very, very intently, and he can feel his ears going red.

“Why are you telling me this, sir?” John finally manages to get out, after a breathless moment. It’s one thing to hear the Schuylers speculate about this, but Washington is looking at him like he knows something. Washington, John realizes, thinks Eliza is right. He thinks Alex is in love. With John.

“I like Alex Hamilton,” Washington says placidly. “I’d like to think he has a place on this campaign, in this family of ours. But, my dear Mr. Laurens, I believe this might be an area where you have more say than I do.” He watches John intently. John tries not to do anything incredibly embarrassing, like forget how to breathe.

It hadn’t seemed remotely possible, not even when the Schuylers were saying it, but now -

Alex was in love with him? Still, after all this time?

It wasn’t as though John hadn’t still had feelings for Alex, even after everything. He’d never managed to make himself stop loving Alex, at least a bit, which was precisely why he hated him so much as soon as he’d shown up unannounced and started making trouble. But it if was true, if Alex really did still care about him, and if that was placing his entire career and future at risk…

“Don’t fire him, sir,” John finds himself saying, too fast, too frantic. “Please.”

Washington watches him a moment longer, then nods slowly. “Very well. I’ll trust your judgment on this.”

“Thank you,” John manages. “I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to encourage him to focus, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir, John,” Washington says, and now John is sure of it - there’s amusement and fondness in his voice, in his face. It’s more than John can handle right now, and he beats a hasty retreat, finding a quiet corner to hide in and think over how ridiculous his life has suddenly become.

John has spent the last five years nursing a grudge against Alex, mostly for how he had been able to walk away from the shit-show he left behind, while John had been left to pick up the pieces and try to put them back together. John had always thought Alex had gone on to bigger and better things, while John had been left with political, familial, and emotional issues that he’d been entirely unprepared to deal with. But it wasn’t true. Alex had paid a price for his actions - five years of lost potential, of scrabbling for positions with minor campaigns that were far beneath the level of his talent.

It still seems impossible that they might be right, that Alex might be suffering from lovesickness rather than something more terrifying - but, if they were right…

What is John supposed to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It cracked me up to write this, with John taking everything so impossibly seriously while everyone else is trying their best not to explode with laughter. Alas, poor boy. It'll all come right in the end. 
> 
> So I'm definitely diagnosing myself as "back on my bullshit" at this point, in terms of writing. Sorry. That means probably reams of words coming your way, and nothing you or I can do to stop it. I'm trying (she lied, shoving stacks of plotting documents under the couch). 
> 
> Love and delightful reams of Shakespeare to you all, darlings! Thank you so, so very much!


	8. 3.1

Somehow, it’s all true.

Alex isn’t sure how any of it can be, or how apparently everyone else in the entire world had been able to see the truth of the matter while he had staggered along clutching entirely the wrong end of the stick, but it seems they were right, all of them. Jack loves him.

Which is surprising for so many reasons, but mostly because they’ve been down this road before.

Alex has few illusions about himself. He knows very well how to be flattering and charming, and that his words, properly used, are a weapon that few can defend against. He’s never really had much trouble starting relationships with new people. The trouble always comes later, when they begin to see past the glittering facade of cleverness and get to know Alex for himself.

And he and Jack have been there, done that, gotten the messy-breakup-trophy. It’s not the only relationship Alex has ever mourned, even if he does feel unusually guilty about how he had ended things. But that’s just it. It ended, and that is meant to be the end of it. Alex has never had to deal properly with an ex before, and certainly never encountered one who didn’t fully hate his guts. He’s got super powers of alienating people that way.

Jack has never been like other people, though.

All week, things have been strange between them. Alex is pretty sure it had started on Monday, with a sudden melting of the ice that has only continued and grown more fluid all week. A loosening of tensions, an end to the verbal warfare that had existed between them - and now, at the end of the week, he feels like they’re genuinely on their way to being friends again. He can see everything he’d been missing, before - the hints of amusement in Jack’s eyes at things Alex says, the way he doesn’t do anything sensible like switch desks with someone else. Yeah. Jack loves him, somehow.

The one thing - a small thing, a minor note in the grand scheme - the one thing that’s keeping Alex from spending all his time obsessing over this mystery is the fact that they’re in the homestretch of a gubernatorial campaign that they cannot afford to lose, and that he and Jack both have critical roles to play. The pressure mounts all week, and they’re all starting to sleep less, take fewer breaks, throw themselves into the work.

On Thursday night, Alex kind of - forgets to go home. He means to, of course - but then the opportunity arrives to get major coverage of the upcoming debate between Washington and Cornwallis, and he’s not about to waste a second. On another campaign, there would probably be more staff to handle these things. Alex could obviously ask other people for help, as well. But he’s not going to do that. It’s not his way.

He barely notices as headquarters begins to empty out. Everyone is staying later these days - except Burr, who they all force out the door at reasonable hours, mostly so they don’t have to look at baby pictures and hear all about what little Theodosia is doing and which milestones she’s meeting. Still, by eight everyone is gone except for Alex and Jack, who is surprisingly almost as bad about throwing himself into his work and not coming out as Alex, these days.

Alex sends emails and edits statements, sends photographs and quotes and makes up funny little details about Washington’s debate prep, and the hour grows later. Sometime around midnight, food appears on the desk between them, and he eats without thinking about it.

“Not that picture,” Jack says suddenly, looking over his shoulder. Alex doesn’t even startle at the interruption, which is strange. His body has apparently just accepted Jack’s presence there and forgotten to be uptight about people peering at his work. Very strange. “Angelica will have your head if you send that one to the press.”

“Why?” Alex asks, trying to see what could be offensive.

“Because it’s got Angelica and Jefferson in it,” Jack explains, as if this is obvious stuff. “In the same frame, and not obviously trying to kill one another.”

“What?” Alex says, blinking tired, too-dry eyes. “Wait, seriously - what? She’s the one who brought him aboard and forced his loathsome presence on all of us, and she’s going to object to being in a picture with him?”

“Obviously,” Jack says, collapsing gracelessly onto his own chair. Alex spares a moment to glance at him. Shouldn’t have done that. Too distracting. Jack looks as tired as Alex feels, his hair standing out in escaped curls all around his face like the halo of a very untidy sort of angel. “Oh,” he says after a minute, coming to a realization. “Oh, that’s right. You probably missed all of that drama.”

“What drama?” Alex asks. Jack grins, just a little, a wicked sort of humor starting up in his eyes.

“It was last year,” he says, dropping his voice as though Angelica might be around, waiting to pounce. “Jefferson was the rising star in state politics with his performance on my father’s re-election campaign, and somehow he got the idea that what he really needed to do was marry Angelica.”

“Marry her,” Alex says. He’s never been accused of cowardice - well, ok, rarely been accused of cowardice - but he cannot fathom the nerve it would take to think himself the equal of Angelica Schuyler. She may actually walk on water, he’s not certain. Jack nods.

“You know, the whole Schuyler political campaign dynasty thing,” he continues. “Jefferson’s got his eyes on greater things, of course. He plans to make a Congressional run in a year or two, and figured their influence would be necessary. So, anyway, he decided to be very public about all of it, and passed along to the gossip-mongers that they were in love and about to be engaged, and it went somewhat viral.”

Alex gapes. He really had missed all of that. And yes, he knows very well that when Jack says it went viral, he means within the very small and incestuous world of state politics, but still. “And Angelica let him live?”

“Barely,” Jack says, eyes dancing, and Alex has to take a sudden breath as it strikes him, in a wave, how much he has missed this; how much he has missed Jack. “God, I can’t believe you missed it! She forced him to make a public statement. Even got him to apologize!” He sits back in his chair, as pleased as if he’d orchestrated the entire thing himself.

“I didn’t think the man was capable of an apology,” Alex mutters. “So, I can’t publicize this picture for fear of starting up the rumor-mill again?”

“You got it,” Jack agrees. Alex nods, and then perks up, nodding more vigorously.

“Oh, that makes so much more sense now!” Jack looks at him curiously, and he rushes on. “At the masquerade ball, I heard him telling Laf that he’d turned down Angelica’s advances, which never made a bit of sense!”

“He was running his mouth all that evening,” Jack agrees. “Of course he never had a chance with her, but it’s also so typical of Jefferson, spreading rumors like that because he couldn’t handle being the one who was rejected.”

“He’s an ass,” Alex agrees. “You should have seen how upset Laf was. I, uh,” he hesitates. There’s a sudden strange urge in him to tell Jack what he had done to try to help Laf. He wants to impress him, Alex realizes, and with something other than his political skills. “I set his mind at ease,” he says, making his voice carefully casual. “Found a super creepy plague doctor to dance with to prove a point, and I think it really helped. Did he, uh. Did he tell you about that?”

There’s a moment where Alex is honestly not sure what Jack’s face is doing. He can’t interpret the strange contortions - and then Jack laughs, warm and open, throwing back his head and almost howling with laughter. It’s not the reaction Alex had been looking for; for a moment, he considers sulking - but then the delight of what he’s done sinks in, and he finds himself grinning stupidly.

He had forgotten what Jack’s laughter sounded like - the real kind, not the sarcastic sort that they’ve traded back and forth for weeks. There’s a rush of joy through Alex at the sound, and at the idea that he’s the one who brought a genuine smile to Jack’s face. Even if he’s not quite sure why he’s reacting that way, it’s all worth it, for that moment of sunshine-bright laughter.

The years melt away, in an unconscious lightening of a load he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying, and somehow it feels completely natural to beckon Jack closer, to look through his press releases together, to strategize on their approach for the next few days. It’s one thing to work together in a technical sense, ignoring one another while exchanging the bare minimum of information. It’s something else entirely, what they’re doing now - working together, bouncing ideas off one another until it’s impossible to tell what were Jack’s contributions and what were Alex’s, and the work is so much better for it.

The problem, as it turns out, is that the adrenaline rush of their intellectual rapport distracts them both.

“Gentlemen?” The deep voice makes them both startle, looking up from their hunched positions over their work to see George Washington himself standing over them, looking somewhere between concerned and amused. “Is there a reason that you are both still here, in yesterday’s clothes, looking for all the world like you have forgotten to sleep?”

Alex glances out the window in shock, and then at the time on his phone. It’s almost eight in the morning. Jack is staring up at Washington like a child caught red-handed by a parent, and a horrible cluster of nerves suddenly makes Alex want to giggle at the whole thing.

“We were collaborating on publicity for the debate tonight, sir,” Jack says. “We can’t afford to let the opportunity pass without capitalizing on it.”

“Mr. Laurens,” Washington says sternly. “Mr. Hamilton. Have I not made it clear that I refuse to allow my staff to neglect themselves for the sake of this campaign?”

“No, you have,” Jack says, looking desperately guilty. Alex swallows harder, holding back the giggles, which are probably due to sleep deprivation. “And we aren’t, sir! We ate and everything!” He gestures to the empty plates between them, which Alex suddenly realizes Jack must have delivered.

“John,” Washington says. He looks disappointed, and Jack shrinks a little, giving up the protest. “Very well. I’m certain you’ve both done marvelous work, as usual. And don’t think me ungrateful. I do not take your loyalty or passion for granted.” Jack perks up, and Alex can even feel his own spine straightening. “You will both work no more than half the day today, and then I am ordering you to take it easy for the rest of the weekend.”

Alex nods. It’s a nice change, working for a boss who genuinely cares about his employees. Jack, though, looks as though he’s just been grounded.

“But, sir!” Jack protests, eyes going impossibly wide. “The debate! It’s tonight!”

“So it is, John,” Washington agrees.

“We can’t take the night off!” Jack protests. “We have to be there!”

Washington shakes his head, looking so fond that Alex has to look away. He’d worked on a campaign with John and Henry Laurens for months. He’d watched father and son interact thousands of times, and never once had he seen any sign of affection anything like this from Henry to his son. There’s no question in Alex’s mind exactly why Jack is so dedicated to Washington’s cause.

“Young man,” Washington says gently. “I have attended many debates before, and I am confident I am up to the task. There will be plenty of people from the campaign present to keep me on track. You two, however, will be at home. Taking the evening off.” There’s no hesitation in his tone, and Alex knows they’ve lost. “Half the day, and no more,” Washington says firmly, and pats Jack on the shoulder as he goes past. Jack slumps dispiritedly.

“Sorry,” Alex offers. He’s really, really bad at apologies. It’s why he hasn’t tried to offer one yet for, you know, their entire past. “I didn’t mean to get us in trouble.”

“It’s not fair,” Jack says. The tendency to sulkiness - that hasn’t changed over the years, and neither has Alex’s hidden amusement at it. “So everyone else will get to be there, and I’ll be sitting here trying to watch the whole thing on a laptop that doesn’t even have functional speakers anymore.” He’s legitimately pouting. Alex has to remind himself that it’s not cute.

“So take an actual break, for once!” Alex says, stretching some of the knots out of his back. “Go home and watch it on TV, if you must.”

Jack looks at him, losing the pout, and Alex flinches. He’s not angry. He looks hurt, and that is way worse. “Yeah,” he says tonelessly. “Yeah, guess I should.” Jack stands and heads for the kitchen, and Alex tries to make his sleep-deprived brain figure out what he said wrong.

Shit. It hits him all at once. Go home, he had said - and if what Laf said is really true, that’s something Jack can’t do, not anymore. And Alex has the terrible suspicion that it is in part his fault.

He heads for the kitchen, finding Jack staring disconsolately at the coffee pot, as though it has broken his heart. Alex doesn’t hesitate, in case common sense should intervene.

“Come home with me,” he says quickly. Jack turns to look at him with absolute confusion, and he pushes forward. “I mean it. Come over to my place this evening and we’ll watch together. We’ll steal Herc’s popcorn and everything.”

“It’s fine,” Jack says, looking suspicious. “I’ll figure it out. You don’t have to-”

“No, I don’t have to,” Alex agrees. “I want to.” The way Jack looks at him after that is so strange - like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle, to make sense of a foreign language. “I want you to come home with me,” he says again, and he makes his voice as sincere as he can.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jack asks. He doesn’t blink, watching Alex.

“Most of my ideas are,” Alex points out. Jack cracks a smile at that, and Alex can’t help but respond in kind, even if he can’t assure himself that Jack isn’t sort of laughing at him.

“Fine,” Jack allows after a minute. “OK.”

And Alex isn’t sure which one of them is suddenly more nervous.

~~~~~

Washington kicks them out at noon, and stands in the door to make sure they actually leave. Jack looks like someone has kicked his puppy.

“Come on,” Alex says. Jack is still standing there looking at headquarters, as if not quite sure where else he should go. “Why don’t we take my car?”

“Because there are so many other options, after all,” Jack says, wrinkling up his nose, and Alex thinks about that for a minute.

“You don’t have that stupid little car anymore?” Jack had been the incredibly proud owner of an incredibly stupid car, when they had known each other before. It was too small to carry even a load of groceries, too underpowered to climb the hills, and routinely got lost between other cars in parking lots, forcing them to spend far too long searching it out.

“That was a good car,” Jack says stubbornly. “But no. I don’t.”

“Your dad,” Alex says, and it’s not much of a guess. Jack shrugs.

“Apparently undermining his authority, making a public laughingstock of him, and going against all his teachings didn’t endear me any further to him,” he says, following Alex to his own car, which is a bit of a moving garbage can just now. He’ll clean it after the campaign is over. “He didn’t really feel like paying for the car anymore. Or, you know. Anything else.”

“You really did it, then?” Alex asks, keeping his voice gentle. “Stood up to him.”

Jack shrugs again, looking awkward. “I was always going to, Alex. I just didn’t think the middle of the campaign was the time or place to pick those fights.”

“So I probably made things worse, then,” Alex says, wincing.

“It’s a particular gift of yours,” Jack says. There’s no anger in it, though. “It was ok. He was angry with you after the, uh, explosion. And then he was angry with me separately, once I finally, you know. Came out. Made a stand. All of it.”

Alex blows out a long slow breath as he puts the car in gear and drives away. Jack had never needed his prodding and pestering, his heavy-handed encouragement to stand up for himself. “How did he take it?” Alex asks, wishing suddenly that he’d been there. He should have been there, with Jack.

“Oh, you know,” Jack says lightly. “Threw me out, told me not to darken the doorstep again. Tried to bar me from employment with all of his colleagues - not that I was looking to work with any of them, at that point.” He looks out the window. “Handed me all my student loans and told me I was on my own. You know. All that good, fatherly stuff you’d expect.”

“Shit,” Alex mutters. Now it’s starting to make sense - why Jack is living in Washington’s headquarters with a tiny wardrobe and no car; why he doesn’t go home; why he looks so strained, Alex has struggled, himself, over the past few years, but at least he hasn’t got student loans (thank all the stars for scholarships) and he has got Herc. He makes it work financially, even on the not-so-lucrative salary of a campaign staffer. “And your siblings?”

“We stay in touch, under the radar.” Jack sounds tired, which makes sense. “Meet up at school events and places Dad would never bother to be. They’ve always been better at keeping their noses clean, so they get along with him still.”

“Look,” Alex starts. “I’m really sorry. I never should have-”

“Alex.” Jack stops him, rolling his eyes dramatically as Alex glances over at him. “It was five years ago. We were both idiots. Can we just leave it at that?”

“Only if you let me buy lunch,” Alex says firmly, and will not take no for an answer. By the time they’re fed, he’s starting to feel the lack of sleep.

“Do you think maybe we could sneak in?” Jack asks hopefully as they get to the apartment.

“I have keys,” Alex says, jingling them. “I do actually live here, you know.”

“No! Into the debate tonight!” Jack is still possessed of a one-track mind, obviously. “If we stayed away from the rest of the staff, and just passed for members of the audience, I bet-”

Alex laughs, helpless in the face of his rediscovered fondness for an absolute idiot, and drags him inside.

It takes about five minutes for Jack to steal one of Alex’s hoodies and fall asleep on the couch, sleepless nights catching up to him in a rush, and Alex finds himself drifting off over his laptop, himself. It’s quiet and good, but strange. When they had been together before, they had rarely been so quiet and domestic. They had been so much younger, more full of fire and passion, but also more prone to explosive fights. This is different, unfamiliar. Alex has no idea what is actually happening, and he’s too tired to work it out.

~~~~~

The debate starts at 8. By 7, both of them are pacing, texting with their friends who aren’t currently in disgrace and so are allowed to be there, rather than being grounded.

J _efferson is up to something_ , Angelica warns them both. _He’s looking shifty as hell._

_Don’t worry!_ Eliza assures Jack. _We’ll take good care of everything. You get some rest!_

Alex hasn’t heard Washington debate before, except for video clips online, but he’s not concerned about the man’s performance. He’s more nervous about the fact that Cornwallis is reputed to be an exceptionally good debater, and one who is very, very good at taking advantage of any weakness in his opponents.

Jack is chewing on a thumbnail - a habit Alex had completely forgotten he had, and he’s made such a mess of his hair by worrying at it that it’s mostly come out of the ponytail he usually wears. Still in Alex’s hoodie, he looks so different from the proper, professional young staffer Alex has been butting heads with for weeks, it’s hard to believe he’s the same person. Alex has to school his features when he finds himself staring at Jack fondly. He doesn’t need to do anything that might encourage Jack’s ill-advised crush, after all. They have a professional relationship to maintain.

The local news are excited about the debate, of course. No-one had expected the campaign to be anything like as competitive as it is, and it’s beginning to attract nationwide attention. This debate will determine a great deal about the kinds of coverage Washington and Cornwallis will have in the following weeks, and in the kinds of fundraising they’ll be able to do. There’s a lot riding on it. Reporters are interviewing members of both campaigns, talking to political talking heads, and they’ve incorporated an incredibly generic-looking red-and-blue background. It’s a real campaign. Part of Alex swells with excitement. He’s missed this, all of it, so very much. This is where he’s meant to be.

Well, you know, there, really. Not at home in his slippers, watching it all on TV. But he’s handling it better than Jack, who‘s a nervous wreck.

“It’s not like you could change things by being there,” Alex points out, and Jack gives him a really dirty look. Well, he’d tried.

Coverage changes, highlighting a reporter who apparently has breaking news, according to the breathless announcer. Alex grabs Jack by the arm and pulls him down to perch on the edge of the couch.

“Details are sketchy at this point,” the reporter says, looking thrilled. “But there’s been an apparent intelligence leak from inside George Washington’s campaign. We’re not being given names yet, but it seems that there is a developing investigation into misuse of campaign funding. It seems as though a member or members of the Washington campaign have embezzled an unknown amount of money, but sources are telling us it is a significant amount.”

“What.” Jack says, leaning forward to squint at the screen.

“Preliminary reports indicate that someone seems to have misdirected funding for personal gain,” the reporter continues, delighted. “The Washington campaign, notably, has been running with a significant focus on ethics. This recent development will, naturally, raise questions about that message, as well as where the money has gone. We’re fortunate this evening to be able to speak to Washington’s head speechwriter, who is a fairly new addition to the campaign.”

“Shit,” Alex says, drawing the word out long.

“Mr. Jefferson, thank you for joining us,” the reporter says cheerfully, turning to draw Jefferson into the conversation. “Would you mind telling us what you know about this news?”

“I’ll tell you,” Jefferson says, voice ringing with injured nobility, “that I am incredibly disappointed to have learned about this breach of moral principles. As you say, I’ve only been with the campaign for a few weeks. I was assured, before coming aboard, that Mr. Washington and all of his staff were highly ethical people, and that played a large role in my turning down other offers to join this campaign.”

“Angelica said he was up to something,” Jack says tightly, clenching his hands into fists. “What is this?”

“I hadn’t been aboard for more than a few days before I started noticing some obvious issues,” Jefferson says, looking gently sorrowful. “Certain of Washington’s younger staffers have always had a particularly close relationship with him, we all know. To my dismay, though, it quickly became evident that a significant portion of the campaign funds were disappearing into private pockets. Of course, I would not want to insinuate that George Washington himself had anything to do with this malfeasance. I’m sure he was unaware of this behavior in his close associates.”

“Oooooohhhhh,” Alex hisses, fury rising. “So he’s implying that either Washington DID know and aided the theft, or that he’s clueless about his campaign.”

Jefferson is still talking. “While, of course, I hate to betray the private affairs of the campaign, I saw at once that it was my duty to make these matters public.”

“Can we assume, then, that you’re aware of the identity of the perpetrators?” The reporter looks like she’s about to start drooling at the information.

Jefferson nods. “Naturally. I don’t want to say too much, of course. These things should be left in the hands of the proper authorities - and, of course, I have corroborating evidence as well as another witness. But I will say merely this: I am more convinced than ever, by this act, that our political leaders and their staff should be Americans. Foreigners in our political systems are an enormous risk. Far too often, they simply do not share our same values.”

Jack darts up like he’s going to attack the television, and Alex has to pull him back.

“How dare he?” Alex has never seen him this angry, not ever. “How dare he?”

“He’s saying it’s Lafayette,” Alex says slowly, the meaning becoming clear. “He’s saying Laf is stealing from the campaign.”

Well, Alex thinks, watching Jack go a really kind of frightening shade of red, that’s going to change the nature of the debate, for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Tentative communication? DRAMA? Shenanigans and skullduggery? Blame the Bard, people. Always blame the Bard.
> 
> Still having fun, still wildly, impossibly grateful for you lovely people, and still planning more mischief. :D Yrs, now and ever - Kivrin.


	9. 3.2

The debate does not go as expected. Nowhere in Angelica Schuyler’s extensive preparations or practice sessions had there been any mention of a sudden, inexplicable financial scandal involving campaign funds and one of Washington’s own. 

The debate moderator pretends to be unmoved, but Washington has been around politics and journalism long enough to understand the delight with which he views this chance to shape a breaking story. It’s the first question he asks, and it sets the tone for the entire rest of the debate. Cornwallis is more openly delighted, and wastes no opportunity during their hour to bring the subject up again, or to try to twist Washington’s words. If he is half as successful as he clearly hopes to be, the news tomorrow will be nothing but Washington’s scandal, his French protege, and what he himself might have known about the goings-on. 

The lights are too bright for him to see any individual faces out in the audience. It’s probably for the best. He knows Lafayette. The boy is like a son to him; unfortunately, as he gathers from the tenor of the debate, that fact is obvious to many, and Cornwallis will not hesitate to use it against him. The worst of it, though, is not his opponent’s words or the memory of Jefferson’s sneering insinuations; it is the quiet little voice in his heart that whispers of his own doubt. He cannot countenance that. 

He’s off his stride throughout the debate, though he struggles to maintain control where he can. It’s hard to evaluate his own performance through the maelstrom of thoughts and worries clouding his vision. He can only hope he has done well enough to hold the course of the campaign. He will not see the good work his people have done be wasted on this petty grievance gone wrong. 

They end on time, with a firm handshake that allows Cornwallis one last opportunity to smirk at Washington, and he loses no time in leaving the stage before any of the eager reporters can swarm him. Angelica is at the edge of the stage and catches him by the arm, steering him firmly into the private room they’ve provided him with.

“It’s going to be fine,” she says firmly. That’s enough to shore up his confidence a bit. 

He cannot help but sigh in relief as she propels him through the door, closing it behind him as she takes on the mob of reporters. But as he makes it through the door, the sigh transitions effortlessly into a groan of dismay as it becomes clear that his room is not empty. 

It’s John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton - and really, he should not be surprised. Washington has a whole campaign of exceptionally skilled and dedicated staffers, but there’s something special about the little group of young people he has gathered to him. John and Alex are among the most driven, the most brilliant, and the least obedient aides he has ever known.

“I seem to recall giving you gentlemen the evening off,” he says, forcing his voice to remain firm and not betray any of the fondness or amusement warring inside him. In all honesty, it does his heart great good to see them, both of them blazing with righteous indignation. 

“Sir!” John, of course, who will never stop addressing him with unwanted formality. “It isn’t true! I don’t know what Jefferson thinks he knows, but Lafayette would never be involved in any such thing. You must know that!”

“Oh, he knows,” Alex says, voice tight and angry. “Everyone knows Jefferson is trouble. We gambled, bringing him aboard, and now we have to pay the price.” He addresses Washington directly. “We need to get our hands on whatever evidence he claims to have, right away. We need a statement out for the media, tonight, before this has a chance to go any further.”

It’s hard not to show amusement at their casual disregard for his orders, even if he knows it should be frustrating instead. He looks back and forth between them, neither of them blinking, both tired and disheveled and ready to pull another all-nighter on behalf of Washington and Lafayette. John is wide-eyed and untidy; Alex looks as though he’s been dragged backward through a hedge. Clearly neither of them took the night off. He shakes his head. 

They are so very young, and so full of fire; it makes him feel old, and tired, and very grateful.

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, removing his suit jacket and pushing up his sleeves. “I think you’re both right. We’ll get a statement out right away,” he says, nodding to Alex, “and I need to see Lafayette at once.”

“But you know he didn’t,” John insists, stepping closer, as though prepared to plead for clemency on his friend’s behalf. “Laf would never, never do anything to hurt you, or your campaign.”

“Young man,” Washington says, giving a little smile. “I would never think it of him. But we need to establish right away what evidence it is that Jefferson claims he has, and I need to know what Laf may know of this.”

“Oh,” John says. “Right. I’ll go find him now.”

“And Herc,” Alex adds, in just the commanding sort of tone that Washington knows will set John off. His shoulders tense automatically. This is not the time for their petty bickering, no matter how it may amuse the rest of his staff. 

To his surprise, John doesn’t snap back at Alex or stop to fight - he just nods and takes off, and Alex is already on his phone, tying madly away at what is likely the first draft of his press statement. Washington takes a moment to blink in surprise. It’s nice, having the two of them on the same page for once.

Angelica marches in, swinging the door closed behind her, and turns to Washington like a soldier reporting in. “We should never have brought Jefferson on,” she says briskly. “I gave you bad advice, and I am thoroughly sorry for that now.”

“It was my decision,” Washington corrects. “It was a calculated risk, and we knew it all along. Don’t be sorry,” he tells her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “But help me now, if you will. We need to turn this around before it drags us down.”

She nods tightly. “I’ve given the media the runaround,” she reports. “It won’t buy us much time.”

“Anything you can get us,” Alex says, not looking up from his phone. “And we’re going to need to be on the major local news networks tomorrow. Radio, TV, podcasts, whatever I can scrape together. John will manage the schedule.” He says that so certainly, it’s like feeling broken pieces of a bone snap together. Hamilton and Laurens, working the same problem on the same side, are a force to be reckoned with; the Schuylers are indefatigable professionals, and the rest of his staff are also of the highest quality. Washington allows himself a sigh of tenuous relief. It’s too early to relax, but he’s beginning to hope they have an actual shot at this.

Angelica nods and slips out, just as John returns with Mulligan and Lafayette in tow. Washington’s heart goes out to Laf at once. He looks terrified, and Mulligan is a tight knot of crossed arms and furrowed brow. 

“I did not,” Laf begins, putting both hands up in front of him, as though to ward off an attack. “I do not know what Jefferson was talking about, but I believe he meant to implicate me, yes? I never did any such thing!”

Washington closes the distance between them and puts both hands on Laf’s shoulders, squeezing gently, trying to impart a measure of reassurance. “I know,” he says quietly. He ruthlessly crushes the little voice of doubt, the tiny demon that would have him doubt this boy, as good as any son to any father. “I know. I believe you.”

“You have to fire him.” John is all fire, in a way that Washington has never seen him before, practically incandescent with rage. “Now. Tonight. You can’t let him back into campaign HQ, sir.”

“No.” Alex still doesn’t look up, and he is as reserved as John is angry.

“You’re sticking up for him?” John asks, bewildered. “After this? After everything?” He turns back to Washington. “Sir, he’s already done enough damage.”

“Can’t fire him,” Alex says again. He does look up this time, locking eyes with John. “I mean, I’d love it if we could. There’s nothing I’d like to see more. But we can’t.”

“Why?” Mulligan asks, voice low and almost dangerous. Laf looks at him strangely. 

“The media,” Alex says, waving his phone vaguely. “Look, think about it. How does it look if Jefferson says all of this and the campaign immediately cans him? It looks like we’re admitting he really discovered something, and that we’re trying to cover it up, don’t you see?”

“And what if he really did?” Mulligan asks. Now all eyes are on him, and Laf’s tension levels go soaring enough that it’s visible to everyone. “What if he isn’t lying?”

“What are you saying?” Angelica demands. Mulligan shifts uneasily, but doesn’t lose the glower. 

“He showed me,” he says after a long moment. “Accounts, receipts.” He hesitates a moment. “And there was video.”

“You are not saying you believe this?” Laf asks, his voice stunned and hurt. Mulligan shrugs tightly. 

“I’m saying he has evidence,” he says simply. “Haven’t seen any on your part, as of yet.”

“OK,” Angelica snaps, and marches over to grab him by the arm. “You’re coming with me, right now, and showing me absolutely everything. We’ve got no time to get to the bottom of this.” She points back at the others. “Laurens, Hamilton - handle things. Laf - do not fall apart. We do not have time for it.” She gives Washington a nod, and frog-marches Mulligan out the door, leaving no time for anyone to respond. 

~~~~~

By the time they make it back to headquarters, more than half the staff have come in on their own, even though it’s closer to midnight than any of them want to admit. Lights are blazing in every window of the house, and tensions and tempers run high. There’s more than one shouting match, as everyone tries their best to untangle the sudden mess. 

Mulligan brings them all of Jefferson’s so-called evidence, and at first, Washington is taken aback. There is money missing - a lot of it. Accounts have been emptied, money moved around; there are copious receipts showing mismanagement and money transferred to international accounts - and then, Mulligan reluctantly shows them the video Jefferson had provided him. 

It’s definitely Laf, without a doubt, though the video has been taken in semi-darkness and at a distance that makes things like facial expressions hard to make out. It’s suspicious looking, to say the least. Laf is in Washington’s office, alone, at his desk, though the video is too distant to make out exactly what he’s doing. 

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Mulligan says uncomfortably. “I didn’t believe it - not until I saw this.”

“But it proves nothing!” Laf says incredulously. “I often work in this office, especially when you are out, you know it!” He directs his plea to Washington, who nods slowly. He does, of course, and Washington has never had a problem with it. But - 

“In the middle of the night?” Mulligan asks, voice ringing with suspicion. “Look at the time and date! Same day the money was moved. Look at how dark it is. What business would you have been doing here at two AM?”

“No!” Laf shouts, moving around to look at the screen. “No, that is not right. I was not even here on that night.”

Washington heaves a sigh. He’s doing his best to handle all this calmly, and trying to let his team work it out. He knows his strengths and weaknesses, and is well aware that his talented young people have a far greater chance of managing the situation than he does. But this - it’s hard to answer the charges of his own two eyes.

“We don’t know that,” Mulligan says, though Washington would swear he’s having to suppress his own hope that Laf might be able to prove his innocence. “This is from weeks ago, before we were - uhh. Before I have any reason to know where you might have been at that time.”

“I was not even in town that night,” Laf protests. It’s not proof, and they all know it. 

“Umm.” John is standing in one corner, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “I, umm,” he says. “Laf wasn’t here that night.”

The others all turn to him, eager for proof, and he goes a little bit redder. “How do you know?” Mulligan asks, still suspicious. “You were with him somewhere else?”

“Ah, no,” John says. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, darting a glance at Washington that’s oddly unhappy-looking, as if he’s hoping to be let off the hook. “No, I didn’t see him at all that night.”

“Then how does that help?” Angelica asks sharply, and John looks down at his feet. He stares miserably at his toes for a long minute before taking a deep breath, though his voice comes out as barely more than a murmur. 

“Because I didn’t see him here,” he says, and glances up through his eyelashes, clearly hoping that’s enough, that he won’t be forced to say more.

“Jack,” Alex says. It’s an encouragement, somehow, and John nods his head a bit. He’s never looked younger, somehow. 

“I was here all that night,” he says unhappily. “And, um, every night. I’d have known if anyone came in. The video’s fake, or altered, or something.” 

Somehow, without obviously moving, Alex ends up next to John. Washington isn’t quite certain, but he thinks he may have taken John’s hand surreptitiously. Still, that’s not really the main point.

“Why would you have been here at nights?” Washington asks, and fiercely regrets that he has to ask, because John seems to shrink at the question. He waits a minute, and then simply asks, “Son?”

John sighs, and drags his head up with a force of will. “Because I’ve sort of been living here,” he says sheepishly. “For a few months. Just while I’m working some things out,” he continues, speaking faster, as though to prevent interruptions. “But it’s actually a good thing, because I can guarantee you Lafayette was not here that night. No-one was, except me and the ghost, and I can promise neither of us was involved in any such thing.” He laughs a little, though it sounds self-deprecating. “My father would be happy to inform you of my complete uselessness when it comes to all things financial. But, more importantly, it wasn’t Laf.” His voice is rock solid at that, and he looks at Washington with absolute certainty. 

Washington leans back in his chair, trying to think through everything that’s being thrown at him at once. He clearly has not been paying enough attention to his young employees, not if he’s missed the fact that one of them is homeless, and several of them are potential murderers, if he can go by their facial expressions as they discuss Jefferson. More urgent, at the moment, though, is the issue directly before them. The rest can wait a little while.

“So,” he says calmly. “Laf wasn’t here.” Laf and John both give huge sighs of relief, and he goes on. “So how does Jefferson have this video, and what does it signify?”

“Honestly?” Angelica asks. “Pardon my French, but it signifies bull shit.” She waves at the phone. “My little sister Peggy could have made this on her laptop, given an appropriate source video. All Jefferson had here was a video of Laf in your office. He’s altered it to try to look incriminating. There’s no way any of this would stand up to a criminal investigation - but that’s not what he’s going for, is it? He’s just looking to cause a scandal and cost you the election.”

“OK,” Alex says. “That’s where we start, then. We make sure he fails.” He grins, strangely feral. “And then we go from there.”

~~~~~

There’s little sleep for anyone that night. He sends home anyone he doesn’t feel is essential, and the rest buzz around like bees, working their particular angles. Mulligan and Lafayette go to work trying to untangle the mess of financial documents, looking for the missing money, trying to find evidence to link it to the actual culprit. If they seem a bit tense around one another at the moment, he supposes it can’t be helped. Angelica disappears; he really hopes she hasn’t gone to assassinate Jefferson or anything, but he doesn’t quite feel he ought to ask. Alex is on the phone and typing frantically on his laptop every time Washington sees him, as if he can feel how they’re running out of time. John brings him a frankly absurd schedule for the next day full of enough interviews to make his brain go numb, and waits, downcast, while he looks it over. 

“Is all of this really necessary?” Washington asks tiredly, rubbing at his eyes with both hands. 

“I think so, sir,” John says quietly. “We can’t allow their version of the story to gain traction. We have to manage it.”

“Hmmm,” he says, and puts the itinerary down. “Well, then. I suppose we’ll just take all of this one step at a time, won’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” John agrees. He pauses just a moment, then says quietly, “You should get some sleep if you can, sir. It’s not a bad place for it, really, and you’ll need all the rest you can get before tomorrow.”

“I suppose so,” he allows. He waits a moment, and then gives John a smile, as gentle and encouraging as he can manage. “And once all of this is settled, we’re going to have a little talk about this. I want to hear more about this ghost, young man.”

John manages a rueful grin and ducks away, and Washington does his best to make himself comfortable, seeing the sense in his advice. 

He’s actually sleeping, somehow, slumped in his chair in an uncomfortable position that his body will definitely use later to remind him how young he isn’t, when the shouting starts. He startles upright, knocking his knees under his desk, and takes a moment to figure out where he is. 

It’s John and Alex, for some reason, arguing outside his door despite the fact that the early light of dawn is barely showing outside the window.

“...are you crazy?” John shouts. “We’ve got proof, we’ve got evidence. Why the hell would we not?”

“It’s not evidence yet,” Alex snaps back. “It’s conjecture, which vaguely indicates he’s at fault. It’s not enough!”

“Oh my god, you are so frustrating,” John says. Washington hobbles to his door and opens it, though neither of the young men take any notice that they suddenly have an audience. “So now everything has to be proven? Every i dotted, every t crossed? Since when have you cared?” If this argument had taken place a week ago, Washington knows his tone would have been laced with venom. It’s not, now. 

“Because I eventually figured out that going off half-cocked doesn’t achieve anything!” Alex bellows. “I get it! You want to kill him, or make him suffer, at least. But if we don’t do it right, he’ll get away with it all.”

“Must be nice to be able to look at it all so calmly,” John says, frustration mounting. “You’ve known them, what, two weeks? You don’t get it - what Jefferson almost destroyed! I’ve never known a better friend than Lafayette, or a better man than George Washington, and Jefferson tried to ruin them both! If custom allowed for it anymore, I’d fight him for the insult!”

“It’s not that I don’t care,” Alex protests, and John laughs.

“Hasn’t that always been the case? It’s so much easier to walk away, or to hold off on doing justice, if you just don’t care about anything, if you’re so uncaring about anyone or anything but yourself-”

Alex storms across the distance between them, staring at John with such heat that Washington can almost feel it. 

“You’ve got it entirely wrong, Jack,” he says quietly. “It’s never been a lack of caring. It’s too much. I never know what to do with it, or when it’s going to explode and ruin everything. I’ve been trying so hard to contain it-”

“What?” John demands. “Alex, you can’t just say that kind of thing. You can’t, not now, not when-”

Alex kisses him. 

It’s quick and almost angry, and leaves John gaping in shock. 

“We are not going to keep talking about this,” Alex says quickly, pulling back to a safe distance. “I have to shut up, before I say something I regret.”

“Isn’t that strange?” John asks, looking bewildered. “I was afraid I was about to say something I wouldn’t be able to take back.”

“Very strange,” Alex agrees. They both look a little shell-shocked. 

“Thank god you stopped me,” John says, a crooked little smile creeping across his face. “Because I was going to say I loved nothing in the world so well as you.”

“Unthinkable,” Alex agrees. “Unbelievable. It’s a good thing you stopped, or I would have had to say the same.”

It’s John who moves forward this time, and Washington retreats into his office, closing the door gently to give his young men a few moments of almost-privacy. He cannot begrudge them that, not even in the middle of the storm that surrounds them. He sits down at his desk, reaching for his itinerary and starting to make plans for the day.

There’s a knock at his door in a moment, and both boys come in, looking completely competent and professional - well, as much as possible for people who haven’t slept in two days. If he hadn’t been a witness a moment ago, he would have no idea anything had passed between them.

“We’ve got evidence, sir,” John says, waving papers at him. 

“It was Jefferson, of course,” Alex adds. They’re completely in sync now, grinning at one another with the predatory glee of those who are about to enact justice. “Once we’ve got it all down, we can turn it over to the police. Jefferson is going to pay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should never say anything positive about my life, kids. I said positive things about my baby's seizures and then she had the most awful night. So I'm not gonna do that anymore! Anyway. 
> 
> I have been really, really restrained through this whole thing about NOT using many lines verbatim from Shakespeare, but I could not help it in this one. Hopefully it won't stick out like too much of a sore thumb. I don't know. I enjoyed writing it, and I hope some of you may enjoy reading! If not, I'm sure my main man Bill Shakespeare will appreciate it. :D
> 
> Love and thanks always, ducklings! - Kivrin.


	10. 4

It’s almost anticlimactic, in the end. After all the chaos Jefferson has caused, the ruckus he’d created over his accusations, he’s gone in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but a mess behind him. The authorities will be combing through all of the evidence for ages, John knows, before they work out what they can charge him with, and he’s too experienced to think that Jefferson will spend any time in prison, even if he deserves it for what he’d done, and more so for what he’s tried to do.

Washington is very, very quiet, thoughtful and solemn in a way that John cannot help but respect, even as he longs for the man to do something to cheer them all up again.

Jefferson is gone, but he leaves plenty of problems behind him. It feels rather like staring at the debris of a major disaster, wondering where to begin to clean things up. Everyone is exhausted and out of sorts, and the media are waiting to pounce, ready to tear their campaign to shreds in the name of a good, juicy story.

Sometimes, John hates politics.

“Right,” Washington finally says, pulling himself together. They all turn to him, expectant and hopeful. “Go home,” he tells them gently. “All of you.”

“We can’t-” Alex starts, and Washington stares him into silence. It’s a superpower John hadn’t known he had.

“It’s Saturday morning,” Washington reminds them all. “I’m aware that we’re in the closing weeks of the campaign. I’m aware that there’s work to be done, and that the media would like to make a circus of all of this. And that is precisely why you are all going to go home,” he repeats, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Get some sleep. Rest, relax, and be ready to get back to work on Monday.”

“They’ll have eaten us alive by Monday!” Angelica objects. “Your campaign will be at the bottom of the river, serving as lunch for the fish. We can’t just-”

“My people come before my campaign.” Washington is direct, and even Angelica stops to listen. “Look around at each other. You’re tired, you’re worn down, you’re hurt. I understand that. And I appreciate, in more depth than I can convey, how very willing you have all been to sacrifice your time and energy for this campaign.” He looks around the bedraggled little crew, some of whom had come in still in slippers or wearing unmatched socks. “And we will have need of all of it before the end. We have a little more than a month to go on this campaign. Do not get me wrong, people. We are going to win this thing.”

“By walking away during a crisis?” Alex asks.

“By saving your energies for where they’re most needed,” Washington corrects. “I expect everyone back here on Monday, ready to work. Until then,” he says, glaring sternly around their little gathering, an impossible warmth in his eyes, “anyone who finds themselves unable to follow orders is going to be sent on vacation for the next two weeks. Do I make myself clear?”

Nods and murmurs of agreement, along with tired laughter, echo around the circle, and everyone begins to pack up to go home. John gives a tired sigh, feeling the last two nights of no sleep beginning to catch up with him. It does sound nice, taking a little bit of time off, even if he’s not at all sure what he’s meant to do with himself.

“John.” Washington’s voice is kind but firm, and John braces himself, turning to face his boss.

“Yes, sir?”

Washington rolls his eyes and sighs tiredly, massaging his forehead. He gestures for John to follow him back to his office. He doesn’t seem to have a choice. Washington lets them in and closes the door behind, but doesn’t go around his desk. He pulls his chair around to sit next to John’s, and watches him for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“I’m sorry, sir,” John starts. It seems to be an appropriate way to begin a conversation, even if he’s not quite sure yet what he’s apologizing for, but Washington puts out a hand to stop him.

“My very favorite Laurens,” he says, so gently that John is suddenly afraid he’s going to burst into tears, though he couldn’t say why. “I’m afraid I’ve let you down.”

“Never, sir!” John insists. “Not in any way!”

“If that is so, young man,” he says, “then why have you been living in this old house in secret and not brought the issue to me? I would have helped in any way I could.”

“I know that,” John says. He can’t look Washington in the face, so he stares at his hands, moving restlessly in his lap. “It’s not a big deal, sir. Honestly.”

“Hmmm,” Washington says. He waits.

“I didn’t mean to be living here,” John says helplessly. “It was just for a few nights, while I tried to figure out what to do, and then it was convenient, and I didn’t have time to go home and deal with my dad-”

He cuts himself off. He’s not interested in talking to Washington about his father, or what had passed between them. John shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to keep anything from you.”

“Well,” Washington says slowly. “As displeased as I am that you’ve been in such a position and not allowed anyone to assist you, I suppose I must be grateful for how it turned out.” John looks up at him, to see a flicker of amusement playing across his features. “I don’t suppose Jefferson ever saw it coming.”

John’s hands clench into fists at the sound of the name. “I hate him,” he seethes quietly. “And you know he’s going to weasel out of it, all of it. He’s got money and a good name. He’ll walk away from this with everything intact, but he would happily have destroyed Laf - and you, sir!”

“I’m afraid I brought that on myself when I decided to run,” Washington muses wryly. “Bringing Laf into it, though - that is beyond the pale.”

“You knew all along it wasn’t him, though, didn’t you?” John asks. Washington hesitates just a moment too long, and John gapes at him.

“I believed very firmly in his innocence,” Washington insists. “But there was a moment of doubt, I must admit. Don’t tell him, though. Please.”

“Never, sir.”

Washington nods and stands,reaching out to grab John gently by the shoulders as he rises as well. “You’re a good man, John. I’m very fortunate to have you on this campaign.” He smiles, and gives John a little shake. “Now, please, go home and rest, because I’m going to need you for what’s to come.” He stops himself, looking pensive. “If you don’t have anywhere to go, I-”

“No, no, it’s fine!” John insists, backing up a step or two and nodding vigorously. It’s one thing to view your boss with admiration verging on hero worship; it’s another to let him invite you home like a stray puppy. “I’ve got plans. With, um. With Alex.”

That’s a lie, and he’s sure it must come out that way - but Washington just nods thoughtfully, giving John a knowing look that is liable to burn his ears off in crimson shame. He makes his escape as quickly as he can, and goes to find Alex.

“Look, don’t say anything, just let me come home with you,” he mutters in Alex’s ear. The poor man is looking longingly around the office, as if the separation from the work for the weekend may be the death of him. At John’s words, though, Alex turns on his with a quizzical look that quickly turns into a blinding smile.

“Okay,” he says. It’s so quiet and gentle, for Alex, that it about takes John’s breath away.

~~~~~

The weekend off doesn’t kill them, despite the complaining they all do about it at first. John and Laf have descended on Alex and Herc’s little apartment and made themselves at home, and it makes for a confusingly domestic experience. Lafayette, who has never yet figured out how to hold a grudge, is barely capable of understanding why anyone might expect him to have any problem with Hercules, who, in turn, is so remorseful at having believed Jefferson that he’s practically purring with delight at every scrap of Laf’s attention.

John makes himself at home on one of the couches, stealing blankets from wherever he can find them and falling asleep despite the noise and activity of the other three young staffers, and then pointedly refuses to wake up for the next twelve hours. Alex tries to rouse him from time to time, but John, for once, is following orders.

And then, on Saturday night, he and Alex go on a date.

Neither of them calls it that. It feels too much like asking for trouble. This thing between them is so new and fragile that John hardly feels like he can breathe - and yet, at the same time, it is the most certain and comfortable he has been in many months. This is Alex, after all - Alex, who he’d once thought he’d be with forever. Even now, after everything they had said and done to each other, and after five years of absence, they seem to fit together in a way that makes it possible to move forward. They tread cautiously around questions of the past.

It’s so easy to be with Alex. He’d forgotten that - the way they make one another laugh, or how quickly it feels safe to tell him everything again. He fills Alex in on five years of family news, telling him how all John’s siblings are doing; Alex keeps him laughing with stories of the ridiculous little campaigns and political kerfuffles he’s been involved with. They eat way, way too many breadsticks.

By the time they drive to work together on Monday morning, John has begun to realize exactly how deep a hole Alex’s absence had carved in him, and just how desperately lonely he has been in the last few months, in particular. It’s stupid and sappy and overwhelming, and he forces himself to compartmentalize it as best he can - only to find himself grinning stupidly at Alex at their shared desk, or humming to himself as he goes about his work.

The one thing that’s keeping him from becoming impossible to be around, even for himself, is the fact that they’re up to their eyeballs in work. They would have been even if Jefferson hadn’t tried to light the whole campaign on fire. His helpful additions mean that they could use another half a dozen press people - but what they’ve got is John and Alex, and they’re going to have to be enough.

It’s a damn good thing he and Alex aren’t at war anymore. There’s no time for it, no space for anything but teamwork. Washington has to get more and more stern with all of his staff about things like lunch and taking proper breaks, particularly as the weeks wear on. They never seem to have time for anything, including a reasonable discussion of what it is they're doing now, but there'll be time for that when the election is over.

Laf and Herc disappear out into the field, recruiting and planning and setting everything in motion for Election Day; Angelica is everywhere at once, handling a dozen things with impossible coolness. Eliza, who is literally a miracle worker, manages to not only do the work of three people but also look after all of them, always knowing exactly when someone is at the end of their tether. Even Martha Washington is suddenly around all the time, and John knows she’s put her own work aside for the time being.

“It’s just a few more weeks,” John tells Alex, prying his laptop from his hands when Alex’s eyes are too tired to let him make out the words anymore.

“Two more weeks,” Alex sighs, giving up on getting John off the couch and tossing blankets over him; John can barely manage to blink in exhausted thanks.

Then they’re counting it in days, and people stop going home at all, and even Washington allows it. He debates Cornwallis again and wins decisively; Jefferson tries to sue the campaign for unspecified damages and Martha Washington can hardly stop laughing as she prepares to destroy him, legally; they become a meme online - Washington playing Whack-A-Mole with a Jefferson who pops up with one would-be scandal after another. There are four days to go.

Laf calls and asks John dreamily what he thinks of Christmastime weddings, and he’s not even there in person for John to strangle him.

By the time they’re down to the last few days, hardly anyone is even laughing at John and Alex anymore. It had been the joke of the entire campaign headquarters at first, given approximately ten seconds to become public knowledge; John and Alex, who had both railed for so long against romance, were perfect targets of amusement for having accidentally fallen in love with one another. Even the hilarity of that circumstance fades with the intensity of the campaign, though. There’ll be time to laugh at them later.

No-one sleeps in the last 48 hours or so. Washington is constantly on the road, making speeches, shaking hands, kissing babies. Campaign headquarters runs on coffee and anxiety, and John worries that Alex is going to fly apart in the tension of it all.

~~~~~

And then - it’s over.

All but the counting, anyway.

Election Day flies by in the blink of an exhausted eye, and somehow they’re at the election watch party, dressed in decent and clean clothing, and no-one has died at all. It is, quite frankly, astounding. John feels as though he’s been through some sort of time warp.

“He’s going to win,” Alex mutters at his phone, fingers clasped so tightly around John’s hand that they’re probably both going to have bruises tomorrow. “Exit polling is good, turnout is high exactly where we needed it. He’s going to win.”

“I know,” John says simply. It isn’t really in doubt, for him, and it never has been. Of course George Washington is going to win. Any other outcome is unthinkable.

The polling places close at 7 PM, and then there isn’t much time left to wait. Alex hyperventilates quietly in a corner with John shielding him from the rest of the staff and guests until the data starts to pour in. It isn’t even close; John had known it wasn’t going to be. By 8 PM Cornwallis is finished, and the watch party is a victory celebration.

It’s the first time John feels bad for Washington - Governor Washington, now, soon enough, and everyone is going to have to get used to saying it - because he’s stuck, now, making speeches, shaking hands, talking to reporters. His staff, following orders established in advance, are free to enjoy themselves, to take an evening off in celebration of what they’ve accomplished. John feels as though he’s walking on a cloud, especially after Washington manages to corner him for a moment and shake his hand, promising that John has a permanent position on his staff. Alcohol flows freely, dancing is undertaken (badly), and the young people of the campaign eventually find themselves a quiet corner to congregate in, relaxing for the first time in so many weeks. It’s absolutely blissful, John thinks.

It doesn’t take long for conversations to turn teasing, of course. They all give Herc and Laf a hard time; they’ve spent so much time together out in the field that they’re finishing one another’s sentences and are, quite frankly, disgustingly adorable together. They’re unmoved by the laughter, content in what they have found, and so the conversation moves in a predictable direction - John and Alex.

“Do you think it’s something in the water?” Eliza asks, grinning at them both. “First Herc and Laf, and then you two? I think we’d better be careful or we’ll all wind up partnered off and infatuated.”

“Excuse me,” Alex says very precisely, having had a tiny bit too much to drink. “I am not infatuated, thank you very much.”

“Oh, no?” Angelica asks, laughing openly at him. “Are you going to claim you’re not madly in love, then, Hamilton?”

“Of course not,” Alex says. He’s very dignified. “I’m a man of reason, after all.” He tips his head back against John’s shoulder, grinning up at him backwards, and John feels a surge of fondness sweep over him.

“And what about you, John?” Laf asks, giggling in a very undignified fashion. “Were you not the one lecturing us all about the ill-advisedness of campaign romances? What happened to your cool head, my friend?”

John puts up a finger, scolding the air. “I’m as sensible as ever,” he says, managing to keep a straight face. “I stand by what I said, as well. Campaigns are no place for romance.”

Alex sits up straight and turns to face him, suddenly looking worried. “Then why did you fall in love with me in the middle of a campaign, Jack?”

John frowns. “It’s not like I started it, Alex,” he says, trying to be gentle.

“No, you did,” Alex insists. “I didn’t mean to spy, you know, but I accidentally found out from Herc and Laf.”

“What are you talking about?” John asks. There’s a sudden looming sense of disaster in the air; everyone else has gone very, very quiet.

“I accidentally read a text thread,” Alex says, with the air of one admitting a great crime. “All about how you were madly in love with me but trying to hide it.”

“No,” John says slowly, shaking his head. “No, that’s all backwards. Alex, I heard it from Eliza and Angelica - you were pining, they said!”

“There was no pining!” Alex objects. “Laf said you were driving him crazy singing my praises!”

“Eliza thought you were going to do yourself an injury!” John shouts back. Their volume isn’t loud enough to carry outside their little circle, but it feels like the entire world has stopped to watch and listen.

“No such thing!” Alex says. He’s red in the ears now, and John feels his heart sink.

“So, you don’t,” John says. He clears his throat. Why the hell had he ever been so stupid as to give this a chance, so stupid as to think that Alex really had changed enough to make this possible? “You don’t love me.”

“No,” Alex says, looking at the floor. “I mean. I mean, you’re a fantastic colleague, and as a communications director-” he stops, and clears his throat. “You didn’t really fall for me, either, did you, Jack?” Alex asks sadly. John can’t look at him. His eyes are so wide and dark that he’s liable to fall in them and not be able to get out.

“No,” he lies. Maybe it isn’t a lie, after all. They’d both been mistaken, it seems; the stress of the campaign led them to see things that weren’t there, to make unfounded assumptions. “I mean,” he says quietly, addressing his left foot, “I’m really glad we’ve become friends again, but-”

The joy has gone out of the party. There’s still music in the background, still a rush of cheerful voices amid riotous decoration, but all John wants is to leave, to go back to campaign headquarters and find space to be alone, to get his head back on straight. He’s going to have to leave, right away. He can’t stick around after this; there’s no doubt that Washington will want to keep Alex on, too, and John can’t be around after this, not after he’s made such a huge mistake. He needs to vanish right now. He needs to move to Alaska. He turns to go, but Laf snags him by the shoulder, looking disappointed in him.

“Do not be an idiot,” Laf hisses in his ear, and drags him back to face Alex. “Alex, John, my friends, I admit that we may have, ahh, encouraged things along a little. We may even have exaggerated the facts the tiniest bit - but it was all in a good cause!”

“You tricked us,” Alex says flatly. “Both of us. On purpose?”

“It was for your own good,” Hercules tells them, not sounding remotely sympathetic. “Man, you think we’re all stupid? The two of you had eyes for nobody else as soon as you were in the same office, and the rest of us were going crazy listening to you fight!”

“Not subtle,” Angelica agrees, narrowing her eyes at them. “We all figured it would come down to either fistfighting or making out on your desk, and fighting is so undignified.”

“So you told Alex I was crazy about him?” John asks, mind whirling. “I hated him!”

“No, you didn’t,” Eliza says gently, coming up to pat him on the shoulder. “As soon as he said one nice word to you, you melted like a snowcone.”

“You weren’t impressed by me?” Alex asks John directly, looking so forlorn that he almost wants to laugh.

“Alex, I’ve always been impressed by you,” John says tiredly. “Even when I wanted to hit you with my stupid little car, I was still impressed. You’re brilliant, and you know it.”

“Told you that car was stupid,” Alex says, looking pleased for a moment, then wilting again. “But all of this is a lie, then. They tricked you into coming to my place, and - and everything. I wouldn’t have pressured you to come if I’d known-”

“I didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go when Washington ordered us out,” John admits, feeling more worthless by the second. Alex had only let him come over out of pity, thinking he’d been laboring along under a pathetic crush. He’s going to have to change his name out of pure, unadulterated shame. Then a truly terrible thought hits, and it’s all he can do not to collapse. “Washington,” he says, feeling his face go bloodless.

“Yes? Washington?” Laf asks courteously. John clutches his arm to stay upright.

“He said he was going to fire Alex for being too distracted,” he says slowly, horror dawning on him as he speaks. “But Alex wasn’t madly in love at all. Which means Washington - he was in on it?” He looks around the little group as he asks the question, and the guilty glances and squirms of discomfort say it all.

He’s going to have to move to Alaska, and change his name, and grow a beard, and never speak to another human again.

“Not really in on it,” Angelica says, shrugging awkwardly. “More like, he knew what we were doing and didn’t stop us. And he may have given you a little nudge in the right direction.”

“Sorry,” John says, speaking to the floor near Alex’s feet. “Really, Alex, I had no idea. I never would have - sorry.” He pulls away from Laf’s grip, heading for the door. Alaska is calling.

“Don’t you dare!” Eliza says, suddenly alight with fury. “Both of you should be ashamed of yourselves!”

“What?” Alex says blankly.

“You know damn well you’re in love with him, Alexander!” Eliza says hotly, stomping one foot. “And you, John! Apologizing, when you should just be telling the truth!”

“Don’t you think we’ve had enough truth for one evening?” Alex says, his voice very flat and sad. John wants to cheer him up - but that’s not his place, not really. It’s all been a lie.

“Not in the least.” Eliza glares up at both of them, and tugs Alex over to stand nearer to John. “Well?” she demands, tapping a foot impatiently.

They glance at each other awkwardly, and John can’t handle the sudden surge of affection he feels for Alex as he stands there, so out of place without his customary swagger and self-assurance. The wave of embarrassment he feels just after that, though, as he thinks about how naive he’s been, is almost enough to make him literally sink through the floor.

“Don’t make me do this, Alex,” Herc says, holding up his phone meaningfully. “I will read your texts aloud if you make me.”

“Fine!” Alex says, caving to whatever threat had been implied. “Fine, ok, I’m crazy about him. What do you want from me?”

“Didn’t we just establish that all of that was lies?” John asks, now thoroughly lost. Alex sighs, and shuffles his feet.

“No, we established that all of our friends are manipulative liars,” he says, glaring around at all of them. “But it’s not true, what I said. I do - I mean, I shouldn’t have said I didn’t -” Alex breaks off, looking absolutely useless, and stupid hope flares in John’s heart.

“Me, too,” he says quietly. Laf points meaningfully at his phone, and John thinks, cringing with embarrassment, of the messages he’s sent his friend about Alex over the past few weeks. Laf isn’t going to let him get away with being that avoidant. John sighs and squares his shoulders. He’s got nothing more to lose, after all. “I love you,” he says. “They may have tricked us into it, to start, but I do, now. Maybe I always did.”

“But I left,” Alex protests. He finally meets John’s eyes. “I sabotaged your dad’s campaign and accidentally all-but outed you, and then I left. How could you not have hated me?”

“Oh, I did that, too,” John assures him. From somewhere, he manages to produce a grin, though it’s a little on the wobbly side. “I managed that for years, and then you turned up again and it wasn’t that simple anymore.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Alex says, sounding wistful. “And I found you’d grown into yourself and your ridiculous talents, now that you’re out on your own, and I couldn’t remember why I’d left in the first place.”

“You left because I was too afraid to give this a fair chance,” John says, reaching out across the gap between them to grab Alex’s hand. “I didn’t blame you, not for that.”

“Then we did you a favor,” Angelica says, sounding very pleased with herself. John had just about forgotten they had an audience, and has to hide a grin when he sees Hercules doing his best to wipe a tear away surreptitiously. “We might not have gone about it exactly the way you would have liked, but it all works out in the end.”

Alex squeezes his hand tightly, and suddenly the yawning emptiness in John is gone, replaced by a lightness that makes him want to laugh aloud. “That may be,” Alex says politely. Dangerously. “I’m sure it would only be good manners for us to return the favor, then. What do you think, Jack?”

“True,” he agrees, letting a smile creep across his face. “You know, I seem to recall that lovely young man Thomas Jefferson insisting to all the world that you were madly in love with him. Perhaps we can help you two find your way together.”

“It would only be fair,” Alex agrees.

Eliza looks suddenly terrified. “What were we thinking?” she whispers, though her voice carries to all of them. “We got them to work together?”

“No one to blame but yourselves,” John says contentedly. He glances at Alex, sharing the amusement that dances in his eyes as their friends suddenly consider the consequences of their actions.

The music starts up again, a familiar tune that John remembers dancing to at the stupid masquerade ball, and he tugs Alex forward, out of their group of friends. “Revenge later,” he calls over the noise. “Come and dance.”

“Fine,” Alex says, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face. “But I’m only doing it out of pity, you understand. Wouldn’t want you to waste away due to unrequited love.”

“I hate you,” John says, grinning back at Alex.

“No you don’t,” Alex says comfortably. He shoves them into an area large enough to dance, and grins at John. “I have it on good authority that you don’t.”

“Can’t believe everything you hear,” John says, laughing aloud at the face Alex makes, and they whirl away into the noise of the celebration. Revenge can wait a day or so, and so can politics. They’ve got better things to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we bring this utter absurdity to a close. 
> 
> This has been a laugh and a half, my friends. I hope it's amused you a fraction of as much as it amused me! As many of you worked out, I was mangling William Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, which is so much funnier, smarter, and better than mine that I am ashamed to admit the relation! You must all go and enjoy the proper thing, of course; the film version with Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh is favored by the Tiny Nerds and myself, but there's no version that's not worth your time. 
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading, and for letting me have fun with this. I'm unreasonably fond of you lot, in particular those I'm coming to know by name due to your faithful commenting, and I'm so very grateful for all of you. I do hope you enjoyed this absurd romp. Until next time - Kivrin.

**Author's Note:**

> OK. So. 
> 
> I've tagged this one "Kivrin does violence to classic literature" for a reason. This is... what can I call it? An homage? A tribute? Maybe call it a love letter. But I'm not telling you what it is, right away, that I am, err, doing violence to, because I want to see how long it takes for that to become clear. SO, I'll write the story, and when you think you know what I'm doing, please speculate wildly in the commentary and we'll see how it goes! :D
> 
> (Further notes: 1. have not abandoned other fic, final chapter is giving me grief being I am insisting on getting it right, look for it tomorrow. 2. This one is meant to be fun and delightful, because the world is not. Plan accordingly. 3. I don't actually know anything about political campaigns. 4. Is Mumford and Sons not a thing anymore, and if so, why not? I shall still shamelessly steal their song titles and lyrics for story titles if I like.)
> 
> Love and adoration to any of you brave enough to leap into something this nebulous and odd. Today is a good day to remember that sometimes the very best things take us entirely by surprise. All the very best- Kiv.


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